And as he sat here, his fists against his temples, the two things suddenly leaped together, coalesced.
What he desired was that which Ryan had.
What he, 9009, longed for, what his life had failed to give him, what his life must now give him, it was what Ryan had.
It was Security.
“He felt safe,” he said to himself with heavy finality.
Then: “Didn’t have to look out for no ‘bulls.’”
“Didn’t have to look out for stool-pigeons.”
“Didn’t carry no gun.”
“He felt safe.”
He knew now what he wanted, wanted more than wine, money, women, cigars, more than the joy of fight, the iron tang of revolt; he wanted peace, he wanted security, he wanted what Ryan had.
“No more of this,” he muttered; “no more. I’ll turn square.”
“Square”—not out of any ethical renovation,
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