He began slowly, from another angle....
He stood there for a long time after they had left, trying to control his rage. He had tried everything he could think of. He had argued, reasoned, pleaded with them. He had raged at them, threatened them. Nothing had worked.
The threats had not disturbed them.
He thought of sending out an emergency beam for help. But what would he say when the ship arrived: put these people under martial law—force them to work—it's for their own good? He'd like to see if they could do it, he thought. He'd be betting they couldn't.
He paced up and down, clenching his fists.
He could have all the council members jailed, he thought. Only there weren't any jails on Nemar.
Resentment burned in him. They'd let him work and struggle and slave day and night—for this. He swung his fist into the wall suddenly, with all his might. The pain stung, but he felt a little better.
He looked at the bruised hand, wondering what to do. He was too restless to go home and stay by himself, burning up with unspent rage; and he certainly couldn't go and sit among the natives, listening to them chatter and laugh.
He decided to take a walk.