"No, you don't have to force me," Damian said quietly. "It's all right now. I'll go. I deserve it."

Something of the man's tones penetrated Chuck's rage and he hesitated, blinking at the other.

"It's only fair," Damian said. "I attacked you, I admit that, tried to kill you. It doesn't matter that she used herself to make me do it, promised everything — then helped you when she saw I hadn't succeeded. There was something in me that let me do it…"

"Don't believe him, he's lying!" Helena wailed.

''No, I have no reason to lie. I'm taking your place, Helena, so at least don't vilify me. I tried to kill him for you — and for myself."

"She wanted you to do this?" Chuck said thickly, blinking through his pain.

"You both want me dead," she screamed, then tore at the heavy computer on Chuck's belt. He groped for it as she pulled it loose, and was only half turned towards her when heavy pain and blackness crushed against his skull.

"About time you came around," Damian said. "Drink this." Chuck felt the bandage on his neck when he bent to put the spout to his lips. He looked around the room while he sucked in the water. "How long have I been out?" he asked.

"About nine hours. You lost some blood and you have a hole in your head."

"There are just two of us here?"

"That's right," Damian said, and the smile was gone now. "Maybe I figured this wrong, but it's over and done now. I tried to kill you. I didn't succeed and — fairly enough — you tried to kill me right back. But neither of us managed to finish the job. Maybe I'm thinking wrong, but I feel the score is even now and no recriminations."

"You don't hear me complaining. And Helena?"

Damian looked uncomfortable. "Well. . the six hours were almost up. And she did agree on the drawing. And she did lose. She attacked me with the scalpel. I'm afraid your computer was completely smashed. I had to dispose of it."

"The insurance will replace it," Chuck said hoarsely. "God, my neck hurts. Head, too."

"Do you think we'll make it?" Damian asked.

"The odds are a hell of a lot better now than they were nine hours ago."

"Yes, one could say that. Perhaps the powers that be have been propitiated by Miss Tyblewski's noble gesture. Upon such sacrifices. . the gods themselves throw incense." He looked out, unseeing, at the blackness beyond the port. "Do you think that should we get out of this, we should, well, mention Helena. .?"

"Helena who?" Chuck said. "Seventy-four people died when the Yuri Gagarin blew. We're the sole survivors."

You Men of Violence

"I hate you, Raver.” the captain shouted, his strained face just inches away, "and I know you must hate me too."

" 'Hate' is too strong a word.” the big man said quietly. "I think 'despise' is much better."

There was no advance warning of the blow — the captain was too good a fighter for that — just the sudden jab that drove his fist into the other's stomach. Raver's only reaction was a slight and condescending grin. This infuriated the captain, who, though a head shorter than Raver, was still over six feet tall, and he expected some reaction other than scorn from the people he hit. In a blind rage he pummeled the other's unresisting form until Raver, leaking blood from nose and mouth, fell across the captain's desk, then slid limply to the floor.

"Get this carrion out," the captain ordered, rubbing at his bruised knuckles. "And clean up this filth." There were smears of blood across the surface of the desk, and everything on it had been swept to the floor when Raver fell. The captain realized then that the blood was on him too and he dabbed at it distastefully with the kerchief from his sleeve. Still, there was some satisfaction in seeing the half-conscious bulk being carried from the room. "Now who is smiling," he shouted after them, then went out himself to wash and change.

Though the captain did not know it yet, he was the loser. From the moment he had boarded the prison ship two weeks earlier, Raver had been planning this encounter. All of his actions, his earlier confrontations with the captain, the hunger strike when the Phreban had been tortured — every bit of it had been planned with this final scene in mind. Raver had pushed the buttons, the captain had reacted as planned, and Raver had won. He leaned against the metal wall of his cell, clutching tightly the pencil-sized communicator that was concealed by his giant fist. When he had fallen across the desk he had palmed it. This was the reason for everything he had done.

Sighing heavily, Raver slumped to the floor and rolled over on his side. It was no accident that his back was to the glass eye of the monitor pickup, or that the barred door of his cell was in sight. Unobserved — and safe from surprise visitors — he allowed himself to smile as he set to work.