In the sweet Venusian spring, when iridescent butterflies swarmed and deer-things scampered, it was both necessary and good for Richard Farris to kill George Pearce. In my mind the memory is still painful and raw, like a wound that has refused to heal. I have only to close my eyes to see Pearce leaping toward me, his face a twisted mask of fear and rage. And I can feel the machine-pistol jerking in my hand as a stream of tungsten-steel pellets stopped his maddened rush, washing away all motion and expression in the utter quiescence of death.…
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