There was silence, then—a taut, hate-surging silence. Eyes smouldering, white to the lips, Vydys smoothed her gown, her hair.
Zenaor turned to Craig Nesom. "You, Earthman—now you, too, shall join ranks with your fellows who died in the starship."
Craig shrugged. In this time, this place, words were wasted.
"But slowly," the chief of barons continued. "There are many things I would ask you—things best brought out under torture: how you got here, into my chambers; the plans of the Baemae; your relations with Vydys. So, you die—but by inches."
Craig shrugged again.
The baron's eyes narrowed. A spark that might have been grim mirth lighted behind them. "And ... there is another thing you should know...." He spoke almost softly. "Your serf genius, Tumek, sought to defeat me. With this."
Left-handed, he reached into the stand beside the sleeping-couch once more, and brought out a flat, black case perhaps six inches across. His thumb touched a spring. The cover flew open.
A great crystal gleamed on black orlon.
In spite of himself, Craig Nesom went rigid.