"Yes, John."
The two women crouched against the wall. Sanderson and the Martian moved across the courtyard and vanished. Then Big Marie moved. "You stay here and guard this door. I'm going after them. Those two damned fools have assigned themselves the job of tackling Malovel and the esse all alone."
For a few minutes Miss Tweedham stayed beside the door. Then, clutching her bum-bum gun, she followed Big Marie.
At night, the big throne chair was moved into the sleeping quarters. Malovel dozed fitfully in it. A slave was constantly beside him, always ready to pass the precious liquid to lips as parched as the fields the humans were trying to cultivate. Through thin gauze curtains, female slaves could be seen sleeping in the adjoining room. They were at Malovel's beck and call but he had long since passed the stage where they were of any use to him.
He existed now as almost pure hate. All that kept him alive was his hatred of all creatures more nearly alive than he was. Martians, humans, the sand jackals howling in the deserts, he hated them all because they were what he was not—alive.
As he dozed, his fingers played over the squares in the arms of his chair. He dreamed of using the esse. Even in sleep his hate yearned to express itself.
A stir sounded at the door as his private guard challenged a wall watcher bringing information to him. The sound aroused him, irritated him. The wall watcher insisted on being brought before him.
"What is it?"
The tone sent shivers through the wall watcher. But he thought his news was important. "Holy One, I heard footsteps outside the walls."
Malovel considered this information. If it was true, he didn't like it. If it was untrue, he liked it even less. Most of all he disliked having his sleep interrupted.