He waited patiently until I ran down. And even then, he didn't answer immediately. He got up, went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He took a glass, filled it with ice and came back into the living room, slowly pouring the water over the cubes. He eased himself back down into his chair, took a drink and studied me over the glass. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and calm. "Are you through?"

"Yeah. For now."

"Good. I want to ask you some questions now. I want you to consider a couple of things. All right?"

I nodded. I folded my arms across my chest.

"Thank you. Now, tell me this. What difference does it make? Maybe it's a kindness to burn a man, maybe it isn't. Maybe he doesn't feel a thing-and maybe it's the purest form of pain, a moment of exquisite hell. What difference does it make, Jim, if a man dies crushed in the mouth of a Chtorran or burned by napalm? He's still dead. Where does it make a difference?"

"You want me to answer?"

Fromkin said, "Go ahead. Take a crack at it."

I said, "It doesn't make a difference-not the way you ask it."

"Wrong," he said. "It does. It makes a lot of difference to the person who has to pull the trigger."

I looked at that. "I'm sorry. I don't see how."

"Good. So look at it this way. What's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

"I don't know."

"So? Who do I have to ask to find out?"

Huh? Whitlaw used to ask the same question. If I didn't know what I thought, who did? I said, "Saving lives."

"Good. So what do we have to do to save lives?"

I grinned. "Kill Chtorrans."

"Good. So what happens if a human being gets in the way? No, let me rephrase that. What would have happened if you had tried to save-what was his name, Shorty?"

"We'd have both bought the farm."

Fromkin nodded. "Good. So what's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

"In this case, killing Chtorrans."

"Uh huh. So does it matter what justification you use?"

"Huh?"

"Does it matter whether you believe that a man dies painlessly under the flame or not?"

"Well, no, I guess not."

He nodded. "So how do you feel about it now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know." I felt torn up inside. I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

He gave me another raised eyebrow. "I don't know," I repeated.

"All right," he said. "Let me ask it this way. Would you do it again?"

"Yes." I said it without hesitation.

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. And how would you feel about it?"

I met his gaze unashamedly. "Shitty. About like I feel now. But I'd still do it. It doesn't matter what the policy is." I added, "The important thing is killing Chtorrans."

"You're really adamant about that, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

He took a long breath, then switched off his recorder. "Okay, I'm through."

"Did I pass?"

"Say again?"

"Your test-this was no interview. This was an attitude check. Did I pass?"

He looked up from his recorder, straight into my eyes. "If it were an attitude check, what you just asked would probably have flunked you."

"Yeah, well." My arms were still folded across my chest. "If my attitude leaves something to be desired, so does the way I've been treated. So we're even."

He stood up and I stood with him. "Answer me something. Are there peaceful Chtorrans?"

He looked at me blankly. "I don't know. What do you think?" I didn't answer, just followed him to the door. He slid his card into the lock-slot and the door slid open for him. I started to follow him out, but there were two armed guards waiting in the hall.

"Sorry," said Fromkin. For the first time, he looked embarrassed.

"Yeah," I said, and stepped back. The door slid shut in front of me.

I STOOD there staring at that goddamned door for thirty seconds without saying a word.

I put my hands on it and pressed. The metal was cold.

I rested my head against the solid wallness of it. My hands clenched into fists.

"Shit!"

And then I said a whole bunch of other words too.

I swore as long as I could without repeating myself, then switched to Spanish and kept on going.

And when I finally wound down, I felt no better than when I had started.

I felt used. Betrayed. And stupid.

I began to pace around the apartment again. I kicked the terminal every time I passed it. Useless hunk of junk. I couldn't even use it to call room service.

I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge-it was surprisingly well stocked. But I wasn't hungry. I was angry. I started opening drawers. Someone had thoughtfully removed all of the carving and steak knives.

And swearing didn't do any good anymore. It only left my throat dry. And me feeling foolish. The minute you stop, you start to realize how silly it looks.

What I really wanted to do was get even.

I walked back into the living room of the suite and gave the terminal another kick. A good one-it nearly toppled off the stand, but I caught it in time. And then I found myself wondering why. The damn thing wouldn't communicate with me-I didn't owe it any favors.

I shoved it off the stand and onto the floor. It hit with a dull thud.

I picked it up and shook it. It didn't even sound broken.

"I know-" I carried it out to the balcony and threw it over the side.

It bounced and scraped down the sloping side of the building and shattered on the concrete below with a terrifically satisfying smash.

I threw the stand after it. And then a chair.

And a lamp.

And a small table.

The TV screen was bolted to the wall. I hit it with the second chair-it took three tries to smash it-and then threw the chair after its companion.

Bounce, bounce, scrape, slide, crash, smash. Great. What else?

The microwave oven.

The nightstand from the bedroom. Three more chairs.

Two more lamps.

The dining-nook table. A hassock.

All the hangers from the closet. Most of the towels and sheets.

A king-size mattress and box spring. Those last were particularly difficult.

It was while I was struggling with the box spring that I realized a crowd had gathered below-at a safe distance, of course. They were applauding each new act of destruction. The more outrageous it was, the louder the cheers.

The bedframe and headboard drew a standing ovation.

I wondered what I could do to top it. I began to clean out the kitchen.

All the dishes-they sounded great as they clattered and crashed on the street below-and all the pots and pans.

All the flatware.

The contents of the refrigerator-and the shelves as well. Almost all the bottled water. I opened one for myself and took a long drink. I stood there on the balcony, catching my breath and wondering why nobody had come up to stop this rain of terror. I finished the bottle and it too sailed out into the night to shatter somewhere in the darkness below.

I looked back into the apartment. What else? What had I missed?

The bar!

I decided to start with the beer. There was a nearly full keg in a half-fridge under the counter. It clanged and bonged all the way down, exploding in a sudsy fountain when it hit. There were screams from the ones who got drenched.

The half-fridge followed the keg. Shit! Wasn't anything built in anymore? What kind of lousy workmanship was this anyway? I stopped, arm cocked in the act of defenestrating a bottle of scotch.

No. Some things are sacred.

What was it Uncle Moe used to say? Never kill a bottle without saluting it first? Right.

I took a swig and sent it to its death.

There were three bottles of the scotch. I toasted every one. Then I murdered the bourbon. I began to realize that I was going to have to take smaller swigs. This was a very well-stocked bar. I assaulted the rums, both light and dark.