"From hell, if need be!" Jarl took a quick half-step forward; stood with hands on hips, feet wide apart, in fierce, cold-eyed defiance. He let his voice ring: "The choice is yours, Commissioner! How much do you love her? Take your pick now! It's her, or Ktar Wassreck!"
The older man brought up a fist that shook with fury. His face worked in a twitching spasm. "I'll blast you, Corvett! By the gods, I'll blast you—!"
"Blast, then," Jarl shrugged. "Blast, and be damned! But remember—your daughter's with us!"
Things happened to the other's face, then ... things that were not good to see. The cheeks sagged, and the mouth went limp, and the eyes' fire dulled to coals of pain. Of a sudden rey Gundre was no longer the high commissioner, but only a shriveled husk of a man all at once grown old beyond his years.
He swayed, then turned, as if he had forgotten Jarl and the raiders. "Atak, what can I do—?" It was a plea, a supplication.
His Malya aide moved into view beside him on the screen. The dark, rough-hewn face had the set of granite. "Corvett...."
Jarl forgot his pity. Sudden needles of tension pricked at his neck. "Yes."
"Tell me, raider—have you heard of Ktar Wassreck's new projector?"
"Yes."
"And that we've already set it up—that this moment it's geared for action?"