Swaying a little from the aftermath of pain and mind-fatigue, Dane tried to watch her.
But now, all at once, his compulsion to reach the shaft was again upon him. It was stronger, this time; stronger than ever before. It was all Dane could do to resist it.
Yet resist it he must, for his captors still stood close by, and he had no taste for the sting of the light-beams they flung at him.
Grimly, he concentrated on Nelva Guthrie, trying to force himself to think of her instead of the sky-thrust lance so close beside him.
Strain-lines marred the girl's blonde beauty now. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks pale, her lips trembling.
And yet, for all of that, she was still the loveliest thing Clark Dane had ever seen. The yearning for her gnawed at him like a physical hunger.
Now the interplay of form and color from the line of Kalquoi indicated they were probing her mind. Dane could see her straighten, just a little ... breathe a fraction faster. Her hands moved, rubbing at the side-melds of her garment as if to scrub sweat from her palms.
More shapes, more colors from the Kalquoi. More signs of tension from Nelva Guthrie. Dane could catch only fragments of the projected thoughts and feelings.
Yet something was wrong. Instinctively, he sensed it. A knot drew tight, deep in his belly. He breathed harder.