The beer hall was large and gloomy. The butts and ashes of the night's smoking filled its trays. Fourteen men watched him come. Half a dozen had hunting rifles.
Hunched over, weeping, a thin, dark-haired girl sat beneath an unshaded light. A shiver of anger crossed his brain.
"Kill the witch!" a young man shouted.
Lord, grant me love....
His eyes focused on the rifle bearers. One of them half-raised his gun. Then the butt clumped on the floor.
"You're bewitched!" the young man said. "I told you not to let him in."
"I've come to talk," Sordman said. "Who's the leader of your group?"
The young man said, "We don't have a leader. Here we're all equals."
Sordman studied the young man's emotions. He was frightened, but only a little more than the others. There was something else there, too. Something very strong. Sex frustration! The young man had an athletic body and a handsome, chiselled face. On his yellow vest he wore the emblem of a Second Class Technician. But even a young man with adequate finances could be frustrated. Keeping the stone in his mind, he undressed a certain actress.
He loved women and engaged in sex with lusty, triumphant joy. To him it was a celebration of the sacred mystery of life. He hoped some of this emotion reached its target.