"Pick it up at the parole board. If you don't report there in twenty-four hours, you'll be picked up yourself and shipped back to Jupiter. You're a two-time loser, Vickers; you can't afford to get into trouble again."
Vickers regarded him with open dislike, then turned on his heel, started across the spaceport at a cautious shuffle.
Freedom!
He couldn't leave the moon. He had to accept whatever work the parole board secured for him—more than likely some stinking job deep in the moon pits. He must report for a check-up and a psycho-therapeutic treatment every four weeks. He couldn't marry or hold property or change jobs.
And if he fell from grace again, it meant sterilization and a life sentence on Jupiter.
Freedom. What the hell had he to look forward to?
All his life Vickers had been lonely. His parents, horrified at having produced a monstrosity, had placed him in a home and washed their hands of him.
Not that Vickers' abnormality was disfiguring or particularly noticeable even—you had to look closely at his eyes to recognize the nictitating lids—but he was a freak, a mutant, and the sight of him had been a constant reminder of their shame.
At the home, Vickers' playmates had quickly discovered his queerness and had taunted him about it with the cruelty of children. His attempts at friendship were met with rebuffs. He might have been able to adjust but he was never allowed to forget that he was different.