In the ring, the wild-eyed, shaking Ulno was retreating before the giant beetle. One of his four hands already was shredded beyond all recognition. Blood gushed from a wound in another arm, slashed open to the bone. His two heads turned jerkily this way and that, desperately seeking some avenue of escape, some sign of mercy.
But no sign came. No path appeared.
The beetle poised. The point of its dagger-like antenna dropped a fraction lower.
With a shrill cry, the Ulno darted along the interlinked cables that bounded the arena in a last frantic effort to escape.
The coleopteron lunged. Beetle and primitive crashed together in wild, paroxysmic conflict.
Then, suddenly, the Ulno was reeling, falling. Again, his awful scream of pain and terror rent the air.
Like great, saw-toothed pincers, the coleopteron's mandibles stabbed in. The Ulno's cry cut off in bubbling death.
The crowd shrieked savage exaltation.
Once more, contempt, revulsion, gripped Haral. Thin-lipped, he worked his way around the ring towards Sark.
Laughter—ghoulish, obscene—rocked the raider chief. His rolls of fat shook. Tears of sheer sadistic glee spilled down his puffy cheeks.