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.