Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Read Online Free PDF

me and began to draw nothings in the
     sand. Since I'm single, I guess I haven't developed whatever special
     rapport a man can have with a younger version of himself: and when that
     youthful image isn't even human, well, I just sat there, waiting for
     someone to say something.
    "You were nice to me and my people last night," he said finally, his voice
     just this side of quavering. "I think I should thank you."
    My mind was still not functioning properly. Part of me kept up a warning
     that this kid was suspected of murder, and my throat tightened. The other
     parts kept bumping into each other searching for something to say that
     sounded reasonably intelligent.
    "They, uh, treated you rather unkindly, son."
    He shrugged and wiped the sand from his doodling finger. "We get used to
     it. It happens all the time, though I guess that's not really true. Not
     all the time, anyway. Maybe it just seems bad here because it's so small.
     I'm … we're not used to small places."
    He began digging into the sand, tossing the fill up to be caught and
     scattered by a sharp, suddenly cool breeze.
    "People can be cruel at times," I said unoriginally. "You shouldn't let it
     bother you and your folks. Small people, you know, and small minds."
    The boy stared at me from the corner of his eyes, his face still in
     shadow. "Aren't you afraid of me?"
    "Why? Should I be?"
    He shrugged again and worried the hole with the heel of his hand. "I think
     that detective thinks I killed that old man. He talked with us nearly two
     hours this morning. He said he was satisfied. I don't think so."
    I shifted around to face him, but he continued to avert his face. I
     couldn't remember seeing such a shy boy before, though I supposed that the
     shock of the crime wasn't the easiest thing in the world to accept with
     nonchalance, especially when he was on the receiving end of the suspicion.
     I made a show of searching the beach, stretching my neck and gawking like
     a first-time tourist. "I don't see your, uh, parents. Are they as
     unconcerned as you?"
    "My people are inside. They don't want anyone staring at them."
    My people. That was the second time he'd used that wording, and I
     wondered. In the silence I found myself trying to place his accent,
     thinking it was perhaps a custom of wherever he came from, but there was
     nothing to it. Curiously so. He could have lived anywhere. On impulse I
     asked if he and his mother and father would care to join me for dinner. He
     shook his head.
    "Thank you, but no. We'll eat in our room until something happens to
     change their minds. The doorman almost slammed the door in my face."
    That figures, I thought as the boy struggled to his feet. He looked down
     at me and said, "Thank you again," and was gone as abruptly as he had
     come. It was then that I noticed the few sunbathers staring at me, their
     hostility radiating clearly. I grinned back at them and lay facedown,
     hoping they hadn't seen the grin twist to grimace.
    As I lay there, I considered: unlike members of most minorities, androids
     had no recourse to courts, education, or native human talent to drag them
     out of their social ghetto. They were as marked as if their skin had been
     black or brown, only worse because whatever rights they had stopped at the
     factory entrance. And I wasn't at all pleased to have to admit to myself
     that even I couldn't see handing them the same rights and privileges as I
     had. I was beginning to wonder just how far above the crowd I really was
     for all my ideas. I thought of the people who'd glared at me you'd better
     stop casting stones, I told myself. Don't feel sorry for the boy, feel
     sorry for the parents.
    And then I dozed off, which, for my skin, is tantamount to stretching out
     on a frying pan. When I awoke again, my back felt as if it had been
     dragged over hot coals. And in feeling the burning pain, I surprised
     myself at the foul language I could conjure. I tried to put on my shirt,
     gave it