For an infinitesimal time, Makun’s face reflected horrified comprehension before it melted into shapelessness.
Barra put the distorter back in its rack, looking disgustedly at the mess on the cushions. There was nothing for it, he thought. He’d have to destroy those, too. Cleaning was out of the question. He shook his head.
Like all these strong types, this Makun had neglected a simple principle. With fear as his constant companion, Barra had been forced to learn to live with it.
Extreme mental pressure was merely another form of fright. It could paralyze a braver soul—and often did. It merely made Barra miserably uncomfortable without disturbing his control. And the hatred that was always in him was unimpaired—even amplified by the pounding terror.
The more thoroughly Barra was frightened, the more effectively he attacked.
He leaned back in his seat, letting the drumming of his heart subside. Eventually, he would recover enough to guide the boat out of the swamp and back to the Residence.
Tomorrow? Well, he would have to inventory the freight the man had carried. He would have to check those draft beasts. Perhaps he could discern the hidden identification Makun had mentioned.
And he would have to make disposition of some twenty slaves. He summoned up a smile.
Now that he thought of it, this affair could be turned to profit. After all, Dar Makun had been diverted from his route and he had lost some of his train. And caravans had been known to disappear in the vicinity of turbulent nulls.
All he had to do was deny knowledge of the fate of Dar Makun’s caravan if there were any inquiry. Oh, certainly, he could tell any inquirer, Dar Makun had arrived. He had stayed overnight and then taken his departure, saying something about cutting around the null and back to his normal, northern swing.