PAC-4 SPRING

"and a capitol felon." She had dampened his moment of euphoria, of triumph, and he could feel his temper starting to flare.

"We’re all capitol felons, he snapped, "but you re the only one who’s proud of it."

"Proud of it?" Her look told him she was distressed by his accusation. "Is that what you think?"

"You refuse to tell me anything about it." Her face was suddenly transfigured by sorrow.

"Because I’m ashamed of it, not proud." Tears were pooling on her lower eyelids as she looked at him pleadingly. "You and Rudy.. .even Elsa, were only protecting yourselves when you did…what you did."

Quenton gripped her shoulders tight, as if trying to force her to understand through his hands as well as his words. "Rudy was protecting his damn wallet, and I lost my temper." He looked deep into her eyes and spoke slowly. "Elsa’s was a crime of passion when she killed her cheating husband and his girl friend, Clara, don’t you see? Rudy and I both played judge and jury, too. It’s like the judge said, the fact that I was angry doesn’t mitigate my crime. I was guilty. We were all guilty."

Clara closed her eyes tight, resisting his argument. She knew they were all aware of their own guilt. Admission of one’s guilt was considered the first step toward rehabilitation, and, like marriage, had been prerequisite for them being reassigned. But she also knew that her own guilt was more profound than his. Her crime had been carefully planned and executed, precisely as the judge had described it: in cold blood. Yet deep inside Clara knew she too had been angry, consumed by a rage that had compelled her to punish the man for his own crime, more heinous than her own.

"He killed my sister," she said in careful even tones.

"So you took the law into your own hands?" There was no malice in Quenton’ s voice; it was more a question begging confirmation than an accusation.

"The law would never have punished him. She was sixteen...headstrong like my dad. She ran away from home and somehow got herself mixed up with the scum."

"You said he killed her."

"Oh, not directly...not with his own hands. But he killed her just the same. Got her using drugs, then set her up as a party girl with his political cronies." She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply, gathering herself to finish what she had begun. "She was the pretty one, Quent, and he used her beauty in the worst possible way."

"What happened to her?" He could almost guess, but he knew she had to finish her story now that she had finally decided to tell him about her own crime.

"After he had arranged for her to make the rounds of all the locals he forced her to entertain alien envoys; first on Dorva, then Miridor and then...Olasch." The word stuck in her throat but she forced it out.

Quenton felt her shiver from the effort. Here was her real shame, not her act of vengeance. He knew Olaschi men had a penchant for earth women. He also knew they frequently transmitted a horrible venereal disease to which they themselves were totally immune. No self-respecting woman would have relations with an Olaschi, just as no sane earth man would touch an Olaschi female.

"She caught it?" he asked, again without malice. Clara confirmed his conclusion with a quick nod.

"She killed herself," she said, and this time her voice quavered with emotion. "And all because of that bastard and his political ambition." She drew herself up straight and looked directly at Quenton, her confession almost concluded.