Trevor allowed a wave of disappointment to cross his mind, and then he shrugged. "All right. But get them at it."
He went and stood by the wide ports looking out over the plain toward the city. The slaves were gathered at a safe distance from the ship, waiting like a herd of cattle until they should be needed. Some mounted Korins guarded them while the hawks wheeled overhead.
Coming toward the ship, moving with a resentful slowness, was a little army of Korins. Trevor could sense the group thought quite clearly. In all their lives they had never soiled their hands with labor, and they were angry that they had now to do the work of slaves.
Digging his nails into his palms, Trevor went aft to show them what to do. He couldn't keep it hidden much longer, this thing that he had so painfully concealed under layers of half-truths and deceptions. It had to come out soon, and Shannach would know.
In the smoky glare of many torches the Korins began to struggle with the rusting masses of machinery in the after holds.
"Send more down here," Trevor said to Shannach. "These things are heavy."
"They're all there now except those that guard the slaves. They cannot leave."
"All right," said Trevor. "Make them work."
He went back up along the canting decks, along the tilted passages, moving slowly at first, then swifter, swifter, his bare feet scraping on the flakes of rust, his face, with the third uncanny eye, gone white and strangely set. His mind was throwing off muddy streams of thought, confused and meaningless, desperate camouflage to hide until the last second what was underneath.
"Trevor!"