"The police took me. So many dead...."
"Police—no! Police uniforms, but counter-revolutionaries, I assure you. Thanks to psych-tech Ab'nath, we got to you in time. Probably, the revolution would have failed either way, but more pointless carnage would have resulted."
"Damn you!" Ker-jon said bitterly. "You stand there yapping about what might or might not have happened. Forty days of planning went into that revolution, and all the dreams and hopes of so many mutants—"
The albino blinked. "Ah yes, forty days. Do you know how old I am, Ker-jon? I'm eighty-seven. I was one of the earlier mutants, and I've stood this thing a long time. I didn't want any scatterbrained scheme to knock the legs out from under a plan which is calculated to do more than you dream. How old are you, Ker-jon?"
"Twenty-four."
"Just a baby, and—"
"Go to hell," said Ker-jon, rising. "I'm going to find Cluny-ann. Maybe we can salvage something. Maybe—"
"Sit down, will you?" The two uniformed men came in, swaggering. One motioned Ker-jon back into a chair with his needle-gun, and Ker-jon sat down. The other said: "I'm sorry we had to hit you. But you fought, and you didn't give us any choice."
Wearily, Ker-jon turned to the old man. "Just where do you fit in? Are you working for the Mutant-maker?"
"I said we are counter-revolutionaries. We stood opposed to your plans, because you favored the wrong fight, at the wrong time, with the wrong people. Simple?" He chuckled again, a very irritating sound. "No, I suppose not. Perhaps psych-tech Ab'nath can help explain. Will someone call him?"