Jarl stood rock-rigid. The words he could not understand. But the threat, the menace—they needed no translator.
Pivoting, the primitive stepped back from the altar; thrust out the torch till its flame touched the tip of the nozzle protruding out of the shackled prisoner's chest.
Of a sudden Jarl's whole body was drenched with icy sweat. He could not move; he could not breathe. The tales of horror he'd heard so many times swirled through his brain.
For an instant, nothing happened.
Then, all at once, there was a puff of sound, a flash of flame above the captive. A great black jet of smoke shot high into the air, out of the nozzle.
The life-form on the altar gave one shrill cry that was agony, incarnate. Its body jerked and twisted, lashing against the shackles in a frenzy.
The primitives went mad. The huge room rocked with their howls and screamings.
But Jarl Corvett hardly heard them.
He'd seen cruel death before, on a dozen far-flung planets.