For a moment Bart stared, frozen, unable to move, his very ears refusing

the words he heard. Had this all been another cruel trick, then, a trap,

a betrayal? He rose and looked wildly around the room, as if the glass

walls were a cage closing in on him.

"Murderer!" he flung at Raynor, and took a step toward him, his clenched

fists coming up. He'd been shoved around too long, but here he had one

of them right in front of him, and for once he'd hit back! He'd start by

taking Raynor Three apart--in small pieces! "You--you rotten murderer!"

Raynor Three made no move to defend himself. "Bart," he said

compassionately, "sit down and listen to me. No, I'm no murderer. I--I

shouldn't have put it that way."

Bart's hands dropped to his sides, but he heard his voice crack with

pain and grief: "I suppose you'll tell me he was a spy or a traitor and

you had to kill him!"

"Not even that. I tried to save your father, I did everything I could.

I'm no murderer, Bart. I killed him, yes--God forgive me, because I'll

never forgive myself!"

Bart's fists unclenched and he stared down at Raynor Three, shaking his

head in bewilderment and pain. "I knew he was dead! I knew it all along!

I was trying not to believe it, but I knew!"

"I liked your father. I admired him. He took a long chance, and it

killed him. I could have stopped him, I should have stopped him, but how

could I? Where did I have the right to stop him, after what I did

to--" he stopped, almost in mid-word, as if a switch had been turned.

But Bart was not listening. He swung away, striding to the wall as if he

would kick it in, striking it with his two clenched fists, his whole

being in revolt. Dad, oh, Dad! I kept going, I thought at the end of it

you'd be here and it would all be over. But here I am at the end of it

all, and you're not here, you won't ever be here again.

Dimly, he knew when Raynor Three rose and left him alone. He leaned his

head on his clenched fists, and cried.

After a long time he raised his head and blew his nose, his face setting

itself in new, hard, unaccustomed lines, slowly coming to terms with the

hard, painful reality. His father was dead. His dangerous,

dead-in-earnest game of escape had no happy ending of reunion with his

father. They couldn't sit together and laugh about how scared he had

been. His father was dead, and he, Bart, was alone and in danger. His

face looked very grim indeed, and years older than he was.




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