you a little loot and it lets you get on to the
next killing. But that's all, absolutely all. Yet you got to do it
because it's the way you're built. The urge is there, it's an
overpowering urge, and you got nothing to oppose it with. You feel the
Big Grief and the Big Resentment, the dust is eating at your bones, you
can't stand the city squares--the Porterites and Mantenors and
such--because you know they're whistling in the dark and it's a dirty
tune, so you go on killing. But if there were a decent practical way to
quit, you'd take it. At least I think you would. When you still thought
this plane could take you to Rio or Europe you felt that way, didn't
you? You weren't planning to go there as murderers, were you? You were
going to leave your trade behind."

It was pretty quiet in the cabin for a couple of seconds. Then Alice's
thin laugh sliced the silence. "We were dreaming then," she said. "We
were out of our heads. But now you're talking about practical things, as
you say. What do you expect us to do if we quit our trade, as you call
it--go into Walla Walla or Ouachita and give ourselves up? I might lose
more than my right hand at Ouachita this time--that was just on
suspicion."

"Or Atla-Hi," I added meaningfully. "Are you expecting us to admit we're
murderers when we get to Atla-Hi, Pop?"

The old geezer smiled and thinned his eyes. "Now that wouldn't
accomplish much, would it? Most places they'd just string you up, maybe
after tickling your pain nerves a bit, or if it was Manteno they might
put you in a cage and feed you slops and pray over you, and would that
help you or anybody else? If a man or woman quits killing there's a lot
of things he's got to straighten out--first his own mind and feelings,
next he's got to do what he can to make up for the murders he's
done--help the next of kin if any and so on--then he's got to carry the
news to other killers who haven't heard it yet. He's got no time to
waste being hanged. Believe me, he's got work lined up for him, work
that's got to be done mostly in the Deathlands, and it's the sort of
work the city squares can't help him with one bit, because they just
don't understand us murderers and what makes us tick. We have to do it
ourselves."

* * * * *

"Hey, Pop," I cut in, getting a little interested in the argument (there
wasn't anything else to get interested in until we got to Atla-Hi or Pop
let down his guard), "I dig you