A withered old albino man peered at him anxiously, his face as white as the fungi which sometimes grow, if you are not careful, in the 'ponics room. His pink eyes blinked often against the strong day-period light. Ker-jon couldn't guess his age—eighty, perhaps.
"I see you're awake."
"Who the hell are you?"
"A counter-revolutionary, young man."
"What?"
"Don't be surprised; don't think your little revolution was such a closely-guarded secret that no one knew about it. For one, the Mutant-maker knew. The revolution was an abortive failure, I am sorry to say."
Ker-jon looked at him dully. "What happened?"
"Nothing much. The Mutant-maker had his forces deployed all along the line. Flam-harol didn't have a chance. Twenty-four mutants were killed, and eighteen women. Another two-score injured."
"Cluny-ann?"
"Who? Oh yes, the leader of the women. She's all right, I think. But she said something about tearing you apart limb from limb if she found you. It seems you weren't where you should have been, and for that as much as anything else the revolution backfired. It seems you disappeared." The old man chuckled softly.