"I don't get it," I said. "Why is that big murder-machine the first leader, and not you, Skagarach?"
"Ah," he said. "Ah, yes. Some of us wonder about that too." For all his obvious intelligence, he was a sucker for a one-two compliment to the jaw.
"That was an awful belt he gave me," I said. Something had just occurred to me. "It kind of addled my brains. Lord, I'd like to hit him back for that!"
"Ray?" said Nessa uncertainly. She knew me for a strictly non-aggressive joe since I'd quit football.
"I feel—I feel furious," I said, and I hissed it low and aimed it at Skagarach. "I never had so much yearning to pulverize someone."
Skagarach leaned over and peered into my eyes. "Don't sit on it," he said. "Let it fume, let it rage. It may well be the primal anger. Let it have its way. Only—I don't suggest you hit Cuff."
"Not with my fists, anyway," I agreed. "Maybe with a gun butt."
"Let the rage bubble," he said, laughing almost without sound. "You'll do, Ray Rollins; I believe you'll do." He sat down, staring ahead.
I found Nessa's hand and squeezed it reassuringly. She must have been baffled by the things I'd said. Then I took up with Skagarach where I'd left off on the beach. "All this hand-to-hand combat rot," I said. "Where will that get you—us? Dealing with rockets and space stations, and doing it with submachine guns, after all. It's race suicide."
"You're thinking on the wrong tack. We are the primeval beings, yes; and we're facing, and prepared to use, the farthest reaches of scientific achievement. But look, Ray: if an intelligent caveman came among a group of moderns, and saw a gun lying there, and was taught how to use it, which would be the bright thing to do—snatch it and use it on them, or wade in with his fists?