He paused and eyed Haral. Then, when the blue man made no answer, he went on again. The persuasive note in his voice grew stronger.
"Can't you see what you're doing, warrior? I'm gar of the raiders. If I let you carry off this woman, it means the end of me. Every stabat on the spaceways will say, 'Sark has lost his strength. Sark has let Haral take a woman from him.' Even my own crews would mutiny against me."
"And so—?"
"So I cannot let you go, Haral. No matter what the cost, I must kill you. If not now, then later. If you take the woman, you must die!"
Haral could feel his stomach muscles quiver. The menace that radiated out from Sark hung over him like some deadly cloud.
Baring his own teeth in a death's-head grin, he dug the light-lance deeper into Sark's rolls of flesh.
He said: "If the things you say are true, Gar Sark, then I must kill you now, before you have the chance to slay me." He allowed himself the luxury of a thin, wry smile. "In fact, perhaps it would be best that way. With you dead, your men might pick me as their leader...."
Silence echoed for a moment long as eternity, while their eyes locked in a fierce, interminable battle.
Then, slowly, Sark smiled and shook his head. His webbed fingers caressed the switch set in his chair-arm.
"You'll never kill me, warrior," he answered Haral. "I have a reason for this riding-chair, a reason beyond mere comfort."