The Edge of Tomorrow by Howard Fast Page B

they are without the curse of murder, they may also be without the curse of fear. They may be social in the highest sense. What does society do with a murderer?”
    â€œThere are societies that put him to death—and there are other societies that recognize his sickness and lock him away, where he can kill no more,” Hopper said. “Of course, when a whole world is on trial, that’s another matter. We have atom bombs now and other things, and we are reaching out to the stars—”
    â€œI’m inclined to think that they’ll run,” Fitzgerald put in. “They may just have that curse of fear, Doctor.”
    â€œThey may,” Lieberman admitted. “I hope so.”
    But the more I think of it the more it seems to me that fear and hatred are the two sides of the same coin. I keep trying to think back, to recreate the moment when I saw it standing at the foot of my bed in the fishing shack. I keep trying to drag out of my memory a clear picture of what it looked like, whether behind that chitinous face and the two gently waving antennae there was any evidence of fear and anger. But the clearer the memory becomes, the more I seem to recall a certain wonderful dignity and repose. Not fear and not anger.
    And more and more, as I go about my work, I get the feeling of what Hopper called “a world on trial.” I have no sense of anger myself. Like a criminal who can no longer live with himself, I am content to be judged.

At least, if it makes no sense at all, it explains about the cats. There was a note in the Times today about the pound; they have put away four times the average number of cats, and it keeps getting worse. It will continue to get worse and worse, no doubt, but cats are not as bad as some things.
    To explain it, after I had convinced myself that I was in my right mind, I telephoned my wife. Some say that there is actually no way of convincing yourself that you are in your right mind, but I don’t go along with that. At least I was as sane as I was a week before.
    â€œWhere are you?” my wife demanded. “Why are you telephoning—why don’t you come up?”
    â€œBecause I am downtown at the Waldorf.”
    â€œOh no—no. You are downstairs where I left you less than three minutes ago.”
    â€œThat is not me—not myself, do you understand?”
    â€œNo.”
    I waited a while, and she waited too. Finally, I said, “No, I guess you don’t.”
    â€œI also saw you dodge around the corner of 63rd Street,” she added. “Were you playing games?”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThat wasn’t me either. Do you think I’m out of my mind? I mean, do you think I’ve had a breakdown or something like that?”
    â€œNo,” my wife said. “You’re not the breakdown type.”
    â€œWell, what do you think?”
    â€œI’m reserving opinions,” my wife said.
    â€œThank you. I still love you. When you saw me downstairs a few minutes ago, what was I wearing?”
    â€œDon’t you know?” She seemed shaken for the first time.
    â€œI know. But I want you to tell me. Is that asking so much? Just tell me.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll tell you. The gray herringbone.”
    â€œAh,” I said. “Now I will hold the wire, and you go to my closet and tell me what you see there.”
    â€œYou’re not drunk. I’ve seen you drunk, and you don’t act this way. I will not go to the closet. You come home and we’ll decide whether to call a doctor or not.”
    â€œPlease,” I begged her. “Please. I am asking a small thing. We have been married twelve years. It has been give and take, the best with the worst. But we came through. Now all I am asking is that you go—”
    â€œAll right,” she said shortly. “I’ll humor you. I will go to your closet. Just hold on.”
    I waited while she went and