Then, again, he twisted, shifted. This endless waiting—it was enough to drive a saint to murder.
How long had it been—two hours—or two eons?
It was a time for thinking—because there was nothing else to do but think. Escape was not even a thing to dream about by daylight, with primitives still roving through these warrens. Tonight, perhaps, a man might find a way; but for now there was only ... thinking.
So Jarl lay there on the floor, sweating and shifting. Narrow-eyed, he studied the motionless bulk that was the flagship, and asked himself a thousand questions.
Questions he could not answer.
Why would rey Gundre, of all the players in this mad drama, come roaring down on Womar? What did he seek? How had he found his way here?
Above all, what was he waiting for this way—jets dead and hatches still unopened?
And for him to pick the robot-hold of this ancient ship to land in....
Unless, by some wild chance, Ktar Wassreck had escaped—
Even the thought made Jarl's heart leap.