"I saw," whispered the transportation engineer, "I hadn't thought it was anything like that—"
"He probably threatened her," said the specialist. "That must be it." He raised his forceps and said uncertainly, louder than he had meant to, "Well!"
And Clark Stevens awoke. "Now," he muttered, and his eyes opened. Like a shot from a gun, his lean body snapped into steely action. The specialist he grasped by the wrist, flung away like a rat.
There was a shrill intake of breath in the room, and the men with weapons poised were frozen where they stood. Every man there knew what should be done, what had to be done for the safety of their civilization, and had spent time studying the use of the weapon he carried. But they couldn't do it. The genteel conditioning, in which all thoughts of physical violence had been carefully weeded out from birth, left them helpless before this man.
Stevens rose before them, and, in the gloom of the hut, his eyes blazed like twin embers of a burning city. He uttered one inarticulate roar, and started for them. That galvanized them into action; they were capable of as swift motion as he, but in another direction. They dropped their weapons and fled.
Stevens watched the last of them vanish, then felt a hand take his.
"They—they didn't hurt you?"
Silently he drew her through the door and their bare feet felt the loam of the clearing. The night wind fanned their faces. He turned to her. "I made them run," he laughed, and she smiled. Markett was used to the bursts of childlike glee, and she loved her husband. He had insisted upon some sort of ceremony which apparently was tied up with Roald. And beside the usual broad grin was a kind of shrewd, calculating glint.
"They can't fight. They've forgotten how. But now they know it."
"Then," she whispered, "we're safe."