He clenched his jaw. “I want Don and I want him now!”
“But why must you go back? Your world is powerful; your world is enormous with cities and machines. But what does it hold for you as a man, Martin Lord? Here we give you the dreams of your own soul, peace and beauty, laughter and dignity.”
“Surrender, Don!” Although he was vaguely aware of it, he had no time to consider consciously the strangely sophisticated wording of her argument. When she continued to talk in the same gentle voice, the temptation caressed his mind like a narcotic; against his will, the tension began to wash from his muscles. Driven by a kind of madness to escape the sound of her voice, he pulled the trigger. The yellow wall exploded. Concussion throbbed in his ears, deafening him—but he still heard her whisper in the depths of his soul, like the music of a forest stream.
Then, at the end of the village street, he saw Don Howard coming out of one of the houses with his hands held high.
“You win, Lord; leave them alone.”
It was victory, but Lord felt no triumph—only a crushing bitterness. He motioned Howard to take the path back to the ship. To Niaga he said,
“If your council of elders ever gets around to meeting, you might tell them that, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve already signed the trade treaty with me. We’re leaving in the morning to register the franchise.”
“You’d break your own law? You said the negotiations had to be—”