But the next step—
Abruptly, the door to the control section opened part way. The high commissioner himself looked out. His lean, handsome face was haggard, the dark hair so rumpled that the white blaze was almost lost.
His deep-set eyes flicked to Jarl Corvett. Then he snapped, "Two guards will be enough," and drew back a fraction to let them enter.
They filed in—first the Fantay officer, then Jarl. The guards brought up the rear.
Behind them, rey Gundre closed and locked the door.
It was a bare, bleak room—the navigation unit, with its globes and astrocharts and viziscreens. Through a half-open door to the right, Jarl could see the switches and dial-studded panels of the operating cubicle; the empty pilot-chair.
Tight-drawn as a llorin's bow-string, he shifted, seeking the spot best suited to his purpose. Wry, mocking words Ktar Wassreck once had spoken rang in his brain: "You'll live longer if you pick a place to run to before you have to run."
Even now, as he faced certain death, it was good advice. Disregarding the others, he moved almost to the cubicle's doorway.
For the first time, then, as he swung round to face his captors, he saw the plate of the long-range viziscreen.
Saw it ... rocked ... almost cried out.