Greg's first inclination was to cross the road and smash with his fist the pint-sized weaklings who had stolen his world. Physical conflict: that was something man understood and respected. But the children were not human; he must never allow himself to forget that. They had to be fought on other terms.
First, Greg had to escape the earth without letting them read his mind and measure his hatred. Until he could lift his ship, he had to play along with whatever plans they made for him. The children didn't want him here; escape should be easy—if he could only wall off his thinking.
He turned back toward the faded woman in the scarlet dress. As matter-of-factly as he could, he asked her to show him his room. "I'll probably leave tomorrow; they're doing an efficient job out there."
"The kids don't waste any time. They'll stake you to a cargo of iron ore for Venus; that's the usual procedure." She put her arm through his. "And you promise, Captain: you won't say anything to Dr. Vayle?"
"Why are you so interested in that old fool?"
"We're derelicts. It would be damn lonely without him. He has something to believe in—nonsense, yes; but what difference does that make? Sometimes I can almost believe in it, too."
"Men aren't licked yet."
She laughed. "You noble souls who drop in on us out of space talk so bravely; that's your brand of madness, Captain. Thank your stars you don't have to get to know the kids as well as we do."
She took him to a room on the first floor of the hotel. The air, when he opened the door, was stale. The full moon behind the Venetian blinds made an unpleasant symbolic shadow pattern of prison bars on the carpet. Greg ripped open the zipper of his flight jacket; his chest was wet with sweat. The woman turned to go and he caught her arm, pulling her toward him.