"Sure," Stan said quickly, trying to sound sincere. "You're just telling me things I never would have suspected."
He got better treatment after that. They assigned him to a cell where he could lie down and sleep and when they talked to him, they offered him cigarettes and joked with him. Even Mr. Malcolm went out of his way to be pleasant. They were uncannily accurate when they told him about his past life and he got to thinking more and more that there was something in what they said.
His mother had been no prize and his brother was a lying, little sneak.
Almost a year went by before they led him up to the big one.
When they told him, point blank, that he hated humanity.
Stan felt like somebody had knocked the wind out of him.
"You can't be serious!"
Mr. Ainsworth sighed and shook his head. "Stan, do you remember when I first picked you up? Three of your fellow human beings had dragged you into an alley and were beating you up—you would have been killed if I hadn't come along." He shrugged. "That's the human race for you, son!"
"But they were only three individuals!" Stan objected.