undeniable as a premise in mathematics. Heretofore he had seen only the masks of reality, the reflections, the countershadows. Now, at a bound, he stood beside the gods in darkness who pulled the wires.

The vision faded, became part of his mind. He turned, and it was as if he saw the blond soldier for the first time. How had he ever believed that he and the other soldier might have anything in common? The gulf between them was far greater than if they had belonged to different species. Why had he ever given two thoughts to such a silly, squinty-eyed, bustling little organism? He never would again. It was all very clear.

"We'll get them this time," the other soldier said with conviction. "We've got the stuff now. We'll show the bugs. Come on!"

It was wonderful, hysterical, insufferable. Yesterday, spiders. Today, bugs. Tomorrow—worms? The other soldier really believed it was important and noble. He could still pretend there was that kind of meaning and purpose to that sort of slaughter.

"Come on. Get the beta cycling," said the other soldier impatiently, nudging him.

It was all very clear. And he would never lose that clarity. By one action he would cut himself off from the galactic pack and cleave forever to the faces in the sky.

"Come on," ordered the other soldier, jerking at him.

He unsheathed his weapon, touched a button. Silently a dull black spot, not a hole, appeared in the back of the blond soldier's head. He hid the body, walked down the other side of the hill, and attached himself to another unit. By morning they were retreating again, the monster badly hurt and automatically resisting disillusion.

He was an officer now.

"I don't like him," said a soldier. "Of course, they all try to scare you, whether they know it or not. Part of the business. But with him it's different. I know he doesn't talk tough, or threaten or act grim. I know he's pleasant enough when he takes time to notice you. Even sympathetic. But there's something there I can't put my finger on. Something cold-blooded. Like he wasn't even alive—or as if we weren't. Even when he acts especially decent or thoughtful toward me, I know he doesn't give a damn. It's his eyes. I can read meaning in the eyes of a Fomalhautian blind-worm. But I can't read anything in his."

The soaring city seemed alien, though it had once been home. 

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