He threw the baubles to the ground. One of the Galactics stooped and scooped them into the handbag and offered it to him.
"I take," he blubbered, and as he saw the proffered bag, his hysteria broke and tears started from his eyes. His mouth pouted and he blubbered and cried like a whipped child. Sobs, deep and lung-shaking gripped his powerful frame and his utter lack of control extended to his motor nerves and he slumped like a rag doll.
Broken in spirit, Wan Nes Stan moved forward through the encircling crowd and left them wondering. They did not follow.
Tears streamed down his contorted face and his steps—laggard and weak—were dotted with drops of moisture as he made his broken way to his office.
He entered wearily, and sat down.
"Wan Nes Stan—megalomaniac!" he said bitterly. He turned at the sound of a step and saw Len Dor Vale watching him.
"Broken," he said.
Len Dor Vale fixed the other man with a piercing gaze. "Sorry," he said. "Quite sorry. But it can not be done that way, you know. The whole proposition was your idea."
"I know," said the other man. He inspected Len Dor Vale's large, well-proportioned frame, his strong features, and his absolute poise and wondered how any man, with all to recommend him, could be so utterly unsympathetic. The coldness in his face set him apart from one of the Galactic Ones. "The proposition was sensible enough, yet I failed. Even though I failed, my manipulations were properly done, you will agree."
Len Dor Vale nodded.