When he was gone, I sat smoking and trying to gather up the will to leave. There was a darkness in me. What, after all, was I doing here? Gods, I believed I was in the right, but why is right so pitiless?
On Earth they represent the goddess of justice as blind. On Valgolia she has fangs.
Barbara came over and sat on the arm of my chair. "What's the matter, Con?" she asked. "You look pretty grim these days."
"My work's developing some complications," I said tonelessly. My mind added: It sure is. No way to call headquarters, the rebellion gathering enormous momentum, and on a basis of treachery and racial hatred.
Barbara's fingers rumpled my hair, the grafted hair which by now felt more a part of me than my own lost crest. "You're an odd fellow," she said quietly. "On the surface so frank and friendly and cheerful, and down underneath you're hiding yourself and your private unhappiness."
"Why," I looked up at her, astonished, "even the psychologists—"
"They're limited, Con. They can measure, but they can't feel. Not the way—"
She stopped, and the light glowed in her hair and her eyes were wide and serious on mine and one small hand stole over to touch my fingers. Blindly, I wrenched my face away.
Her voice was low. "It's some other woman, isn't it?"
"Other—? Well, no. There was one, but she's dead now. She died ten years ago."