Ferguson put down his cigar. He looked uncomfortable. He said irritably, "Because I've got to have somebody to talk to." He stared at Cudyk. "Look at me. Here I am, I'm fifty years old, and I been fighting the world ever since I was a kid. You think I can just cut loose from everything now, and lie under a tree? I'd go nuts in a month. I'm not kidding myself, I know what I am. It takes practice to learn how to relax and enjoy yourself. I never learned, never had the time.
"When I get on that island, and I get all the houses built and the wires strung up, and everything's organized and I've got nothing else to do, I can see myself lying there thinking about this place, and all the other places I ever owned, and thinking to myself, 'What for?' And there's no answer, I know that. But just the same, I'm going to be wanting to start in again, making a deal, opening a joint, figuring the angles, handling people.
"So there I'll be, with all these mugs around me. What do they know to talk about? The same things I do. Things that happened to them in the rackets, here or back on Earth. You got to talk to somebody, or you go crazy. But if I've got nobody but them to talk to, how'm I ever going to get my mind off that kind of stuff?"
He gestured toward the Roualt, on the wall to Cudyk's left. "Look at that," he said. "I bought that thing in 1991. I've been looking at it for, let's see, twenty-three years. For the first five or so I couldn't figure out whether the guy was kidding or not. Then, gradually, I got to like it. But I still don't know why the hell I like it. It's the same thing with everything. I have a Corot that I'm nuts about—I look at it every night before I go to sleep. It's just a landscape, like you used to see on calendars in the old days, except the calendars were junk and this is art. I know that, I can feel it. But what's the difference between the two? Don't ask me.
"See what I mean? That's the kind of stuff I got to learn about. Art. Literature. Music. Philosophy. I always wanted to, before, but I never had the patience for it. Now I've got to do it. My kind of life is finished, I've got to learn a new kind."
He frowned at his cigar. "It isn't going to be easy. Maybe there'll be times when you'll wish you had anybody else in the world around but me. But I won't take it out on you, Cudyk."
He meant it, Cudyk knew. For a moment he wondered, Why don't I accept? He could see Ferguson's island paradise clearly enough: the tropical trees, the log huts—with electric light, induction stoves for cooking, and hot and cold water—the sand, the sunshine, the long, lazy afternoons spent in talking quietly on the beach. There would be no strain and no tension, if everything went as Ferguson planned—only a long, slow twilight, with nothing left to fear or to hope for: forgetfulness, lethargy; lotos and Lethe; a pleasant exile, a scented prison.
"You won't have to worry about the others, the guys that work for me," Ferguson said. "After they get through building the settlement, they can do what they want as long as they don't make any trouble. There'll be enough women to go around—they can settle down and raise kids. There won't be any liquor, and I'm going to keep the weapons locked up. About the ship—I'll wreck that as soon as we land. Once we're there, we're there."
If it were not for Ferguson himself, Cudyk thought, I believe I might do it. But Ferguson, inside a year, is going to be a pitiable and terrible object. This is his own punishment, his lesser evil—he chooses it himself. But he is not going to like it.
"I think I understand," he said. "Believe me, Mr. Ferguson, I'm deeply grateful for this offer, and I am tempted to accept. But—I think I will stay and take my chances with the Quarter."