“Drake,” I cried again, aghast, “don't make the mistake Ventnor did. That's not the way to win through. Don't—I beg you, don't.”
“You're wrong,” he answered stubbornly. “I'm going to get her. She's got to talk.”
He thrust out a hand to the curtains. Before he could touch them, they were parted. Out from between them slithered the black eunuch. He stood motionless, regarding us; in the ink-black eyes a red flame of hatred. I pushed myself between him and Drake.
“Where is your mistress, Yuruk?” I asked.
“The goddess has gone,” he replied sullenly.
“Gone?” I said suspiciously, for certainly Norhala had not passed us. “Where?”
“Who shall question the goddess?” he asked. “She comes and she goes as she pleases.”
I translated this for Drake.
“He's got to show me,” he said. “Don't think I'm going to spill any beans, Goodwin. But I want to talk to her. I think I'm right, honestly I do.”
After all, I reflected, there was much in his determination to recommend it. It was the obvious thing to do—unless we admitted that Norhala was superhuman; and that I would not admit. In command of forces we did not yet know, en rapport with these People of Metal, sealed with that alien consciousness Ruth had described—all these, yes. But still a woman—of that I was certain. And surely Drake could be trusted not to repeat Ventnor's error.