There is the scar of an incision there, almost healed. An operation. The weakness I am recovering from is more than the weakness of starvation.
For only half a second I do not understand; then I see why they looked ashamed.
They voted the murder of a race.
All the human survivors found have been made sterile. There will be no more humans after we die.
I am frozen, one hand still extended to grasp the hand of the rabbity one, my eyes still searching his expression, reassuring words still half formed.
There will be time for anger or grief later, for now, in this instant, I can understand. They are probably quite right.
We were carnivores.
I know, because, at this moment of hatred, I could kill them all.
—G. A. MORRIS
