He suddenly curled the fingers of the hand beneath his own until they lay fisted in his palm. She looked up at him, then, sensing almost to the word what he was about to say. "Miss—You know I could turn you in for what you inadvertently told me, just now. I won't, though. You have enough counter-information on me to make things hot even for the son of an official."
"I wouldn't—!"
"Be that as it may," said Lloyd, "let me say something: Quit. Quit now. Get out of this movement, whatever it is. You can't win, you know. The Goons are invincible. And I hate to think of you, falling under a Snapper Beam."
"Death is death," the girl sighed. "One way or another."
He looked at her, genuinely at sea. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Miss. I only helped you avoid hospitalization because I myself—Well, let my reasons go. But you shouldn't fear going. Sure, it's annoying to be laid up for awhile, out of the swing of things, but—"
The girl pulled her hand away. "You're joking," she said. "You must be joking. If you're truly the son of the Secondary Speakster, you must know the truth!"
"I still don't follow you," Lloyd said sincerely.
"You don't know!" the girl said, shaken. "You're really convinced that—Listen to me, listen carefully: There are no hospitals! There is no Readjustment! There is only death."
"You're out of your mind," Lloyd said, recoiling from her vehemence. "Of course there are hospitals. I've seen them—!"
"Sure," said the girl. "From a Tourgyro. Or in the movies. But have you ever been to one? Have you ever met anybody who returned from one?"