ught of dying Mars, the burnt-out
husk of Venus, the political and economic pesthole of Earth--even the
grim, gray, terrible frontiers on the further planets and moons. His
recollections were a dreadful pageant of spectres, of an ugly,
terror-haunted childhood, of the bleak years of his barren, lonely
wanderings--the memory kitbag of a homeless, and often hunted, spacebum.

"I can believe you," Newlin admitted slowly. "Most of the truly
worthwhile leaders of mankind stand so far above the mob that they seem
cast in a different mold. The real leaders--not politicians, nor
military brass. The thinkers and scientists, even the prophets. Every
great religion sprang from the vision or inspiration of a single leader.
Beyond the chaff, the fragments of his actual thoughts and words--always
sound good. But their followers don't follow them."

Songeen's face twisted in bitter wrath. "How terribly true! Can blind
men follow the sun? They feel its warmth and reach out to it, but they
stumble and fall on their own clay feet. Blind eyes and hands can never
reach the light. Most of our emissaries, of that kind, die horribly, and
their message is distorted to serve the ends of madness and corruption."

"Is there no hope for us?"

She stared at him. The pale glow of her moonbright eyes softened and
intensified.

"One hope, and only in yourselves. We have tried and failed. If you feel
so strongly, why have you done nothing?"

Bitter hatred snagged in Newlin's throat, making his laugh a sound of
horror. "Not me. I can pity the masses of poor and down-trodden, but
only as masses. As abstractions. Individually, I loathe them. Cornered
rats will fight back--but men lick the boots of their tormentors. I
learned only hate and defiance. I'm a cornered rat, not a man."

There was sound now, outside the door they had entered. Low at first, a
mere scrabbling, as if the trackers had located their refuge. In moments
only, there came a heavy pounding, followed by the skirl of atomic
drills. Newlin tensed, his hand itching at the butt of his blaster.

"I'm a rat," he went on. "Cornered, like any other rat. And the terriers
are out there scratching at my hole. If you'll open that non-squeak
door, I'll talk to them. Maybe even kill a few."

"No," said Songeen positively. "No killing."

"But I'm a killer," Newlin insisted. "I've killed men before for a lot
less reason. They're mining the door. How long do you think that will
last against expl