Naran lifted himself from the ground, arrowing rapidly toward the caravan, his mind already forming the thoughts which he hoped would soothe the frantic fear and—at least to some degree—allay the frenzy of hatred
that swelled and became stronger and stronger.
Barra could wait.
As Barra swung his distorter to bear, he concentrated on the violent pulse needed to trigger the jewel, his mind closed to all else. He turned his attention on his target.
Suddenly, he recognized the curiously tender expression which had formed on the face of the man before him.
Frantically, he tried to revise his thoughts—to recall the blaze of energy he had concentrated to build up.
It was too late.
With a sense of despair, he recognized the sudden, lifting, twisting agony that accompanied the flare of the overloaded power crystal. For an eternal instant, his universe was a blinding, screaming, red nightmare.
The flare died and he watched dully as the unharmed man before him looked about unbelievingly, then [p 47] looked back to carefully examine him.
“Oh,” he told himself dully. “I suppose they’ll take care of me, but what of it? They’ll put me somewhere. I’ll lose everything. It’ll be just like the place Boemar thought of sending me, when I—”