"Holy Mother, Mike, if he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him, do you think he'd wait until then to feel painful?"
"Maybe it was the poison, Sean, just taking hold?"
"No, Mike, he grimaced just when my fist struck that bone. It was the first sign of pain during the whole time. That's got to be it, Mike. Kraks aren't invulnerable. They've just been careful not to let us find out."
"Why didn't they kill you then, when you found out?"
Sean shrugged the thought away. "Maybe Klash didn't tell them. Maybe it's just luck. I don't know. But I do know this, Mike, it's the first time that a Krak ever departed from that poker face."
Mike sat there, pessimism fighting with this new thread of hope.
"Okay," he said finally. "I guess we can try it, anyway. Though I don't think much of the idea. But it's a chance. And I sure would like to get Marcia back on earth."
"To meet Jane?" Sean asked quietly. Mike looked at him, almost like a boy caught with his hand in the jam jar.
It was some hours later, when Sean slapped the sandal against the palm of his hand and muttered:
"Sandals aren't much good as weapons, but they'll have to do." He looked at Mike and the other eleven men that the two of them had convinced, in whispers so that the audios would pick up only sounds and not the words of their plan.