"Not on your life, Rador," said Larry. "Nothing doing!" And then in the Murian's own tongue. "We follow Lakla, Rador. And you lead the way." He thrust the pistol close to the green dwarf's side.
Rador did not move.
"Of what use, Larree?" he said, quietly. "Me you can slay—but in the end you will be taken. Life is not held so dear in Muria that my men out there or those others who can come quickly will let you by—even though you slay many. And in the end they will overpower you."
There was a trace of irresolution in O'Keefe's face.
"And," added Rador, "if I let you go I dance with the Shining One—or worse!"
O'Keefe's pistol hand dropped.
"You're a good sport, Rador, and far be it from me to get you in bad," he said. "Take us to the temple—when we get there—well, your responsibility ends, doesn't it?"
The green dwarf nodded; on his face a curious expression—was it relief? Or was it emotion higher than this?
He turned curtly.
"Follow," he said. We passed out of that gay little pavilion that had come to be home to us even in this alien place. The guards stood at attention.