Pulley watched in fascination. "You really got it bad," he said wonderingly. "Taking a chance like that, for one lousy kiss. What's so hot about this dame?"
"I can't explain it. She's a looker—but it's more than that. I been watching her parade around, swingin' her little—" He cut himself and swore. "I stopped to speak to her once. There was something in her face—the same kind of thing you see in all their faces—"
"Yeah," Pulley said bitterly. "I know the look."
"Do you?" The other man turned around. "What do you see? Hate?"
"Yeah. What else?"
"No." Bolgar shook his head and stared moodily at himself in the sliver of glass. "It's not hate anymore, Pulley. The hate died out of 'em a long time ago—right after the war, right after the contamination...."
"They hate us," Pulley stated flatly.
"I don't think so. I think it's something different now. Something worse." He began to shave again. "Contempt," he said.
Pulley's right hand balled into a fist and struck his knee. "We shoulda killed 'em all! We shoulda wiped 'em out!"
"I asked her for a match," Bolgar said dreamily. "Just a lousy match. She stared at me like I was some kind of microbe. Then she wraps her damn cape around her face like she didn't want to let me breathe on her." His growing anger caused his hand to tremble; he cut himself a second time.