Varsek was a big lean man, and his face was big and lean, with a lot of bone in it and no softness anywhere, and no warmth, and no friendliness. He smiled, and the smile was a lie. Wyatt thought all the rest of it was a lie too, or at least a deliberate pose. Only his eyes were true. They looked at Makvern, and then at Brinna, and then for quite a long moment at Wyatt, and they were rapacious and hungry, cold and cruel, highly intelligent, and disconcertingly demonstrative of a mind capable of handling nearly anything.
"This is your captive, is it?" he said. "Good. He looks more intelligent than any I've seen yet." He turned his attention back to Makvern. "I've sent a skimmer for you. You too, Brinna."
Makvern said, in an almost too carefully expressionless voice, "We were about to report to the flagship."
"This is important, Makvern. Can't wait. I've got Loran aboard, very sick, about dying I'd say. I want you and Brinna here." His gaze flicked again to Wyatt. "Bring him along. It may help him to understand us better."
"Yes, sir," said Makvern.
Varsek nodded and the screen went dead.
Somebody said, "Skimmer's coming into the airlock now, sir."
Makvern turned around and looked at Brinna. His face was absolutely white. So was hers. White, frightened, and bitterly angry.
"Who is Loran?" asked Wyatt.
"One of our under officers," Makvern said, too quietly. "Come on, we mustn't keep them waiting."