I shouldn't have done it, but I was angry. I snapped a claw across his nerve center before he could draw it back into his shell. It must have hurt plenty, because ten or twelve of his eyes began to water.
"Seeded, hell!" I said. "You touched down on exactly 9080 planets, and I sterilized every one of them after you left. That's what took me so long."
He seemed to shrink a little inside, and for the first time I realized just how old the nut really was.
"All that time," he said. "All that effort wasted. Damn. Double damn."
"You should have figured that in the first place," I said. "Central Maxim 0438 clearly states that no life is to be introduced into the outer galaxies. And don't ask me why. I'm no biologist. I just follow orders."
"Listen," said Pop. "Please listen. Back at Central Galaxy they think we—our race—is pretty much immortal. But they don't know. They don't know for sure if any life will be left in our galaxy after two or three hundred wars like the last one and—"
"Hold it," I said. "You're wasting your time. I'm not a philosopher and you know it."
"That's right," said Pop. "And you're not a biologist, either. You told me." He waved a claw in gesture of resignation number seven. "Well, maybe you're right. Maybe I have been an old fool. Let's go home. No use hanging around an ugly planet like this one." He made gesture of contempt number fifteen.
Well, I thought, that's a relief. Maybe the old geezer wasn't as crazy as I'd figured. Maybe he just needed some sense slapped into him. At any rate, he didn't make any trouble when I disintegrated his ship—the old crate wasn't spaceworthy to begin with—and he climbed into my cruiser meek as could be.