"Shoot, curse you!" Jarl cried, and his voice rang with fierce triumph, with exultation. "Shoot and be damned! Because if I die, I'll take you with me!"
Bor Legat choked, "Corvett—!"
Jarl whirled upon him. "Yes, you starbo! Take me! But remember—if I let go this firing lever, the spring completes the contact for me!"
"No—!" croaked Legat, and his shell-like body plates were clacking. "No, Corvett! That thing would blast us all to atoms!"
Jarl said, "That's better." Coolly, he lowered the bomb and held it cradled between his hands. "Sais...."
"Yes, Jarl...." Quickly, supplely, she moved forward.
"We're leaving now," Jarl clipped. And then, to the chieftains: "If you want to live, don't try to follow."
Hate hammered at him, a living thing—the hate of the wolf-pack that sees its prey escaping. Fists clenched, and gun-hands quivered, and eyes drew to murderous, icy diamonds.
Jarl laughed aloud—scornful, contemptuous. The woman at his side, looking neither to right nor left, he strode to and through the door; closed it behind him.
Sais' taut whisper cut through the darkness: "Jarl, they'll come after us! They'll shoot at a distance—"