"Shut up," he shouted hoarsely. "This is no time for weeping and wailing; this is the time to think, to plan." For a moment the awful symphony subsided; then someone said wearily:
"Against the Kraks? What did planning ever do against them? They are invulnerable. We used atomic power, guns, knives, bow and arrows, even our fists against them. And they crushed us like rats in a corner."
The cacophony resumed, and Sean's shouting voice could not stop it now—he could not even hear his own voice. A hand touched his arm gently:
"Easy, Sean," Michael O'Hara whispered in his ear. "They are right. If we couldn't beat them as free men, how can we even think of it as slaves?"
"The fools," Sean said savagely. "No matter how weak they are, they can keep fighting, keep probing for a chink in their armor."
"No, Sean, for fifteen years we fought, seeking that chink, and failed to find it. Deep down in your heart you know the Kraks cannot be beaten. Physically, they are to us as we are to new-born babes—no weapon of man can touch them, and did you ever hear of a Krak dying of disease?
"No, we met a better adversary. Mother of Erin, Sean, we deserve to be slaves, we haven't the accoutrements to take on the Universe Champion."
"There's nothing anywhere that hasn't a weakness, Mike. I aim to find the weakness."
Mike O'Hara grunted: "Why this sudden fervor to destroy the Kraks, anyway? Until today, you were content to go fishing and hunting without thought of them. Now you've done a right-about-face."
"I know," said Sean, and there was chagrin in his voice. "Until today, they hadn't bothered me."