And everywhere—on every panel, every instrument—were stamped neat, stylized images of the warrior robots.
The numbness in Jarl grew. He knew instinctively, without question, that this was the place sought by Ktar Wassreck—the brain, the nerve center, for the shining metal monsters that were to have saved the warrior worlds.
But now that he was here, what could he do? His own ignorance was a tight-drawn, all-concealing blindfold.
With time enough, and skill and patience, he might perhaps have worked his way through to an understanding of how the robots were controlled. But time was the one thing he did not have. Second by second, the precious hours were ticking by. As far as he was concerned—lacking knowledge, training, understanding—he might as well have been on Venus.
And so the warrior worlds would die. The Federation fleet would sweep down on Ceresta.
Already, the three days given by rey Gundre were running out....
Jarl shook in the grip of helpless, frustrating fury. He had come so far; yet now that he was here, he could do nothing.
He cursed aloud; and as he did so, a new sound drifted to him.
A familiar sound ... the sound of a space-ship's blasting rockets.
He whirled; leaped back to the broad expanse of transparent plastic panel.