"Gray is my given name, Mr. Carroll. My last name--" he laughed embarrassedly, "--well, they call me Wolf, for the time being." "Appropriate," said the man bitterly. "I'm sorry I have to meet you under these conditions, Mr. Carroll, very sorry." The other shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the raider's lean, brown face, trying to guess what sort of mind lay behind it. "In these times," he said finally, with an air of discouragement, "one cannot choose either one's friends or the conditions of meeting." The ferret-eyed man had been watching the exchange closely, and now he sidled up to the raider with his thin, white hand extended. "Please forgive Joseph," he said smoothly. "He is not happy about this affair." His voice exuded a sort of artificial charm, and Wolf found himself repelled by the man. "None of us do," he said. He turned to the farmer again, who was standing uncomfortably, his eyes on the floor. Wolf watched him for a moment, just long enough for the farmer to know he was being watched. "Perhaps," said Wolf slowly, "we had better straighten this out right now." The heavy-set man looked up defiantly. "All right," he said. "I admit I do not like this business, I do not like what you are here for, I do not like what will happen to our village when you are gone." The thin man laughed. "The old man means to say he is a coward." "No," said the man stubbornly, without taking his eyes away from Wolf. "I am not a coward. But your mission means death for many people, people I call my friends. I do not like that." "There is a necessity," said Wolf, quietly. "Perhaps, perhaps," said Joseph Carroll, shaking his head dubiously. "I do not pretend to understand the political complications. I know only that, whether you succeed or fail, our village is lost. Our people will suffer for what you do. Many will probably die. You cannot expect me to like that." "No," Wolf agreed. "We do not expect that of you, Joseph. No one expects you to like this. But, tell me--" "Yes." "What was your tax the past year?" Wolf asked. The old man laughed bitterly. "Seventy-nine percent." "Enough to live on?" "Barely," said Carroll, leaning heavily on the scythe. "It means we must work many hours, sixteen or more a day, in order to survive." "That is what we fight," said Wolf simply. "That, and the near slavery of many of the Colonies. Do you know what happens to the money you pay the Terran Federation in taxes?" "No," admitted Carroll. "No one has dared ask."