"She's not good, Treb, understand that. She's evil and money-hungry, and ambitious. But she is beautiful and I love her. I'd sell my soul and my body to possess her. "That's why I volunteered. With the winners' grant I would have money. Prestige. Honor. There would be a thousand new opportunities for a career. And Jane could not refuse me then." "It is wrong, Harl Neilson, to so worship a woman. Like alcohol or Venerian fire pollen--it is unnatural." "I know. I have tried to forget, to put her memory aside. But it is like a disease. An incurable disease. I must have Jane." Treb threw more wood on the little fire and checked over the lashings about Neilson's body. "I am going to look at my rabbit snares," he said, "and to spring the other traps. We will eat and sleep, and in the morning try to shave and look decent before going to the locks." Neilson let his head sag between his shoulders, and said nothing. He was leaning against a tree, his arms lashed behind him and to it. "There is one more thing, Harl, that I wish to discuss. It is about the Paul Hubble Foundation Award. Think about it." Treb moved off into the darkness. * * * * * The sunlight from the overhead "suns" of the Satellite revealed a greatly changed Treb. He was shaved, his hair combed and hacked off above his ears, and he was stitching the last rough patch on his dark green trouser leg. Now he donned the trousers and went over to the bound Andilian. He cut the ropes, his carbine ready. "Get down to the lake," he ordered. "You'll find a razor, soap and an old shirt to dry yourself with." Harl Neilson was chunky and fair-haired, with a healthy looking red-brown skin. His eyes were wide and darkly blue. Now the wide mouth under his shapeless nose twisted into a faint grin. "I'll try to get away," he warned. "Aren't you afraid of that?" "I have all the guns, grenades and needle-knives, Harl. I'll shoot you if you attempt escape, of course, but I hope you'll listen to what I propose first." Neilson slowly stripped off his ragged tunic and trousers. There was the scar of a recent bullet's path across his right shoulder blade. It was crusted with blackened blood. "I thought I heard you two days back, Harl," said Treb. "Just a scratch." Neilson took up the soap and waded into the nearby lake. "Start talking, Treb." "I told you to think about Paul Hubble's Award, Harl. He's the American industrialist who opposed violence in settling any issue." "Sure. Heard about him in the lower grades. Fifty million dollars he sunk in his worthless Peace Foundation. What about it?" "Hear me out. Did you like what we just went through? Your friends and comrades dying--my friends dead and wounded? And all to settle some territorial dispute or to wipe out some imagined slur. "Would you like to prevent your kid, or mine, from having to face this again?"