"In other words," said Campbell dryly, "stop being Romany."
"You understand. A pet freak, a tourist attraction, a fat source of revenue." Again the savage flash of the hook. "A damned circus!"
"And Tredrick, I take it, has decided that you're endangering the future of Romany by rebellion, and put the finger on you."
"Exactly." Marah's yellow eyes were bright and hard, meeting Campbell's.
Campbell thought about the Fitts-Sothern outside, and all the lonely reaches of space where he could go. There were lots of Coalition ships to rob, a few plague-spots left to spend the loot in. All he had to do was walk out.
But there was a woman's voice, with a note in it like a singing, angry drum. There was an old man's voice, murmuring, "Little people like you, my son?"
It was funny, how a guy could be alone and not know he minded it, and then suddenly walk in on perfect strangers and not be alone any more—alone inside, that is—and know that he had minded it like hell.
It had been that way with the Kraylens. It was that way now. Campbell shrugged. "I'll stick around."
He added irritably, "Sister, will you for Pete's sake get that light out of my eyes?"
She moved it, shining it down. "The name's Moore. Stella Moore."