“Your answer, Fenton,” in his usual gentle voice. “I can give you no more time,” I did not need to consult Charlotte or Jerome. I knew what they would have said.
“You are welcome to my answer. It is—no!”
As I spoke the last word my gaze was fixed on the Rhamda's eyes. He, on the other hand, was looking towards Ariadne. And at the very instant an expression, as of alarm and sorrow, swept into the man's face.
My glance jumped to Ariadne. Her eyes were closed, her face suffused; she seemed to be suffocating. She gave a queer little sound, half gasp and half cry.
Simultaneously Jerome's hands shot into the air. The room shivered with the stunning report of his breast gun. And every pellet struck the Rhamda and burst.
A look of intense astonishment came into his face. He gave Jerome a fleeting glance, almost of admiration; then his nostrils contracted with pain as the gas attacked his lungs.
Another second, and each of us were reeling with the fumes. Jerome started toward the window, to raise it, then sank back into his chair. And when he turned round—
He and I and Charlotte saw an extraordinary thing. Instead of succumbing to the gas, Rhamda Avec somehow recovered himself. And while the rest of us remained still too numbed to move or speak, he found power to do both.
“I warned you plainly, Fenton,” as though nothing in particular had happened. “And now see what you have brought upon the poor child!”
I could only roll my head stupidly, to stare at Ariadne's now senseless form.