I looked up, then. Slowly. Painfully. Still not quite believing.
"That hit you, did it?" Kruze laughed—a harsh, mirthless sound, deep in his throat. "I thought it would. That's what happens, when a man's emotions run unconditioned, unrestrained."
I gripped the bench. I had a feeling that all my nails were broken, my fingers bleeding. But I didn't look to see.
Kruze said, "I know. You're trying to nerve yourself to rush me. Only believe me, it wouldn't do any good. I can ship you to Sheol dead just as well as living."
He turned from the board as he spoke, so that he faced me squarely. Never had the gun been steadier; never the challenge of the cold eyes more apparent, more relentless.
"Rack you, Kruze!" I choked. I wouldn't keep my voice from shaking.
"Would you like to check my logic, Traynor?" My tormentor was openly taunting now, his whole heavy body aquiver with enjoyment. "As I see it, once you and the girl are dead, I've nothing to fear. If you'd told anyone else about this, any man, he'd have come here with you. Because not even an unconditioned fool like you could have enjoyed playing out a hand like this alone. Right?"
I didn't answer.
"You and the girl, you and the girl.—Traynor, perhaps I can solace your final hours on Sheol. Instead of having the girl summarily executed, it may be I can arrange a less public end for her so that she spends a long time dying. Does that appeal to you?"
I waited for a moment before I spoke. Somehow, for no good reason, it seemed that I had to find precisely the right words, the right pattern.