He looked at Kio Barra. The man stood, slack-faced, still holding his distorter rod, but gradually allowing it to sag toward the ground. Naran shook his head.
“Now, what goes on?”
He probed at the man’s mind.
There was consciousness. The man could think, but the thoughts were dim and blurred, with no trace of psionic carrier. The control and amplifier jewels he wore had lost their inner fire—were merely dull, lifeless reflectors of the sunlight. This man could do no more toward bringing life to the jewels than could the village headman—perhaps, even less.
Naran looked at him in unbelieving confusion, then turned as a sudden, screaming thought struck his mind.
“A stinking, high-nosed witchman! And we thought he was one of us! Ate with him. Argued with him. Even fought with him. I’ve got to get away. Got to!”
There was desperation in the thought. And there were hatred overtones, which blended, then swelled.
As the terrorized ululation went on, Naran swung his head, locating the source. He’d have to do something about that—fast. The fellow
would really demoralize the caravan now—even infect the big saurians—cause a stampede.
This guy had some power of projection and his terror was intensifying it till anyone could receive the disturbing impulses, even though complete understanding might be lacking.