Pain that scattered the particles of personality that were Stanley Martin and shriveled them to nothingness. Pain that obliterated the last traces of conscience and memory.
"You hate the human race," a voice repeated smoothly.
"Yes," Stan said, not hesitating. "I hate the human race." And then he started to sweat and shake with an unreasoning anger that flooded him as suddenly as if somebody had turned on a hose. The pain.... The pain for which the apes were responsible.
"I hate the apes! I hate their goddamned guts!"
A silent wave of exultation swept the compartment. They had fashioned the mold and had made their monster....
Five minutes later, the space ship departed for its home system.
"I hate the human race." And....
CHAPTER V
He was 24 years old. A tall, unsmiling, handsome man dressed in a blue serge suit and a hat that he liked to pull down over his eyes so he could look at the world as if it were in a frame. He wasn't the type who made friends and there was a subtle air of menace about him that frightened the people with whom he came in contact. He was a stranger who looked at the world with cold and calculating eyes, like a scientist might look at a piece of lab apparatus. Women were intrigued by him, made their approaches, and hastily left—a little insulted and far more frightened.