On the surface, this action of De Grasse's was baldly impossible. He was committed to Rack's cause twice over, by conviction and by the shearing away of every other tie; and still more important, he worshipped Rack himself with the devotion that only fanatics can inspire. It was as if Peter had defied Christ. The three men stood motionless for what seemed a long time. Monk, halted with his weight on one foot, faced De Grasse with his knife hand slightly extended, thumb on the blade. He was visibly tense, waiting for a word from Rack. But Rack stood as if he had forgotten time and space, staring bemused over Monk's shoulder at De Grasse. The fourth man, Spider--bones and gristle, with a corpse-growth of grey-white hair--stood up slowly. Rack put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down again. Cudyk thought: Kathy Burgess. It was the only answer. De Grasse knew, of course, everything that had passed between Harkway and the girl. There was no privacy worth mentioning in the Quarter. Pressed in this narrow ghetto, every man swam in the effluvium of every other man's emotions. And De Grasse was willing, apparently, to give up everything that mattered to him, to save Kathy Burgess pain. It said something for the breed, Cudyk thought--not enough, never enough, for you saw it only in pinpoint flashes, the noble individual who was a part of the bestial mob--but a light in the darkness, nevertheless. Finally Rack spoke. "You, Tom?" The youngster's eyes showed sudden pain. But he said, "I mean it, Captain." There was a slow movement out from that side of the room, men inching away, crowding against their neighbors. Rack was still looking past Monk's shoulder, into De Grasse's face. He said: "All right." He turned, still wearing the same frozen expression, and walked down the side of the room, toward the exit. Monk threw a glance of pure incredulity over his shoulder, glanced back at De Grasse, and then followed. Spider scrambled after. De Grasse relaxed slowly, as if by conscious effort. He put away his gun, hesitated a moment, and walked slowly out after the others. His wide shoulders were slumped. Then there was the scraping of chairs and boot-soles and a rising bee-hive hum as the audience stood up and began to move out. Harkway made no effort to call them back. Cudyk, moving toward the exit with the rest, had much to think about. He had seen not only De Grasse's will, but Rack's, part against the knife of human sympathy. And that was a thing he had never expected to see. * * * * * "Times like this," said Ferguson, narrowing his grey snake's eyes in a smile, "I almost believe in God." Father Exarkos smiled courteously and said nothing. He and Cudyk had been sitting in the back room of Chong Yin's since a half-hour after the meeting. Seu had been with them earlier, but had left. A little after twelve, Ferguson had strolled in and joined them.