He said nothing, but he began to look at me as though I weren't quite bright. That made two of us, I was looking at him in the same manner.
My finger itched a bit, saving the situation. I'd been about to forget that Thorndyke was a Mekstrom and take a swing at him.
He laughed at me cynically. "You're in a very poor position to dictate terms," he said sharply.
"All right," I agreed reluctantly. "So I'm a prisoner. I'm also under a sentence of death. Don't think me unreasonable if I object to it."
"The trouble with your thinking is that you expect all things to be black or white and so defined. You ask me, 'am I going to live or die?' and expect me to answer without qualification. I can only tell you that I don't know which. That it all depends."
"Depends upon exactly what?"
He eyed me with a cold stare. "Whether you're worthy of living."
"Who's to decide?"
"We will."
I grunted, wishing that I knew more Latin. I wanted to quote that Latin platitude about who watches the watchers. He watched me narrowly, and I expected him to quote me the phrase after having read my mind. But apparently the implication of the phrase did not appeal to him, and so he remained silent.