can spare a few minutes,” the stranger said.

Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium tall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years [p147]  beyond the age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy. “You’re Johnson?” he asked.

[p

147

]  

The man nodded.

Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would not come. “We have nothing to talk about,” was the best he could manage.

“Then will you just listen? After, I’ll leave—if you tell me to.”

Against his will he found himself liking the man, and wanting at least to be courteous. He inclined his head toward a curb wastebox with a flat top. “Should we sit?”

Johnson smiled agreeably and they walked over to the box and sat down.

“When this colony was first founded,” Johnson began without preamble, “the administrative body was a governor, and a council of twelve. Their successors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Then things changed. We haven’t had an election now in the last twenty-three years. St. Martin’s is beginning to prosper. Yet the only ones receiving the benefits are the rulers. The citizens work twelve hours a day. They are poorly housed, poorly fed, poorly clothed. They …”

Zarwell found himself not listening as Johnson’s voice went on. The story was always the same. But why did they always try to drag him into their troubles?

Why hadn’t he chosen some other world on which to hide?

The last question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen St. Martin’s? Was it only a coincidence? Or had he, subconsciously at least, picked this particular world? He had always considered himself the unwilling subject of glib persuaders … but mightn’t some inner compulsion of his own have put the monkey on his back?

“… and we need your help.” Johnson had finished his speech.

Zarwell gazed up at the bright sky. He pulled in a long breath, and let it out in a sigh.

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