"I've ruled here three hundred sixty years and more," van Alen said. "It's not easy to give up a throne in a moment after so long."
Again Kesley dug the knife in. This time, a few drops of blood trickled down, staining van Alen's broad collar. Immortal blood.
"Well?"
Sweat mingled with the blood droplets on van Alen's throat. "I agree to terms," he said hoarsely. "Snap on the recorder on my desk."
Kesley looked suspiciously at the knob mounted in the cabinet. "If this is a trick—"
"No trick," van Alen said.
Kesley backed across the room without releasing his grip on van Alen, and spun the noble around. "Reach down and snap on the recorder yourself. I'll be ready with the knife if anything strange happens. Then start to talk."
Van Alen shifted the position of the stud with an extended finger. A faint hum resulted; otherwise, nothing happened. Kesley relaxed just a trifle.
"Talk," he ordered.
Van Alen said: "People of Antarctica, hear and believe this message.