As it had in the arena, admiration now touched Haral. Steel lay sheathed in the velvet of this Shamon girl's slim, soft body. He could not but respect its temper.
Yet he dared not let her know his thoughts.
Instead, coldly, he drew his ray-gun from its holster. "Then I have no choice...."
"You'll kill me, you mean—?" There was contempt in the girl's voice, the twist of her lips. "So in the end you're not so different from Gar Sark, after all."
Haral smiled thinly. "Say rather that I know enough to bow to reality when I face it. If I cannot win this battle, then I must come to terms another way." He let his smile broaden, building up impact for the climax. "But not by killing you, Priestess Kyla. That truly would get me nothing."
"Then what—?"
Haral shrugged. With careful casualness he said, "Sark still might strike a bargain for you."
"Sark—!"
The shock in the girl's voice stabbed at Haral. Fear was in her eyes now—the bright, shiny fear of those nightmare eternities she stood helpless in Sark's arena.
But the blue man held his face immobile. "You leave me no choice," he clipped. "I must either have the lightning-force, the secret of your goddess Xaymar, or I must buy back my life from Sark. Since I lack the stomach to force the secret from you, that leaves only Sark for me to turn to. You surely understand."