Saul Hartz lifted an imperious chin. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“The Society prescribed for Garland a certain course within a certain time. His only chance of life was to follow it, but that was a fact he chose to ignore.”
“No course has yet been prescribed for me, at any rate.”
“It will be.”
The Colossus folded his arms with a gesture of defiance. “That remains to be seen,” he said.
“You are bound to hear more of this matter.” Wygram toyed with the paper that was still in his hand. “The Society of the Friends of Peace has made up its mind to break you.”
“If it can.”
Wygram’s eyes were fixed once again upon a face which was betraying signs of an ever-deepening conflict. “That hardly admits of doubt,” he said in a low, solemn voice.
“Nonsense ... nonsense!” The manner of the Colossus was that of one struggling to throw off an evil dream. “I refuse to be intimidated by this sort of deviltry. I and my papers, I and my world-wide organization, will fight this Vehmgericht. We will scotch and kill it with the resources we command.”
“I hope you may.” Wygram weighed his words coolly. “Of two evils it is well to choose the less. And that is saying much. For the U. P. is a foul blot enough on our civilization, heaven knows. And you yourself, sir, as I see you, are a sort of third-rate antichrist....”