A bit boastfully, Flane said, "That is because I am not a Klarnvan myself. I am the son of the space-travellers, whom you saw in that big ship. I wish I knew what my people were like."
"You almost make me feel sorry for the Darksiders," whispered the girl, standing close to him.
Flane held her soft and warm in the crook of his arm. With his lips he caressed her cheeks and mouth, tenderly. He whispered, "The union of a space-traveller and a Klarnvan might bring forth a new breed of men and women."
Aevlyn flushed and hid her face in his throat, but her fingertips stroked his jaw gently, lovingly.
"A new race of men," Flane went on dreamily. "Men who would live with Darksider and Klarnvan in peace, with food for all, and trade to make all men wealthy."
"It's a good dream," whispered Aevlyn, "but foolish."
It is foolish, thought Flane, because the races on Klarn are sliding backwards to barbarism. If only the Machine functioned! Why, if he, Flane, could make the Machine hum, he could unite the men on Klarn. They would obey his dictates, or he would refuse them the powers of the Machine! It was as simple as that.
The shouting of a lookout roused him. With Aevlyn at his side, he went to stand at the rail, staring across the plains toward Moornal. A man was on a racing megathon, bent low across his back, swooping like a swallow in flight down into gulches, and up across the level plain. Once he flung up an arm and waved it at the ship.
A rope was flung to him, and he came up it hand over hand.
Panting, the messenger stood before Harth.