Clyde Mitchell

“ Pulley's right hand balled into a fist and struck his knee. "We shoulda killed 'em all! We shoulda wiped 'em out!"
"I asked her for a match," Bolgar said dreamily. "Just a lousy match. She stared at me like I was some kind of microbe. Then she wraps her damn cape around her face like she didn't want to let me breathe on her." His growing anger caused his hand to tremble; he cut himself a second time.
"So you're gonna kiss her?" Pulley sneered. "Why don't you throttle the gal? Why don't you beat her up? Or haven't you got the guts?"
Bolgar turned the anger on him. "Watch yourself, Sergeant!" ”

“ There was something in her face—the same kind of thing you see in all their faces—"
"Yeah," Pulley said bitterly. "I know the look."
"Do you?" The other man turned around. "What do you see? Hate?"
"Yeah. What else?"
"No." Bolgar shook his head and stared moodily at himself in the sliver of glass. "It's not hate anymore, Pulley. The hate died out of 'em a long time ago—right after the war, right after the contamination...."
"They hate us," Pulley stated flatly. ”

“ He shook his head.
"It's greed, you know," the woman said confidentially. The other women of the tribunal nodded in agreement. "Greed's the downfall of all men. How many wars do you have to lose before you realize that?" ”