"Haul them to the dispensary, keep them prisoner," the baron was growling.
Meikl turned on him. "Now it's come to this, has it?" he snapped. "From the beginning, they were willing—even eager, to give what we wanted. Why did they stop being willing?"
"That's enough, Meikl!"
"I've hardly started. You came here like a tyrant, and they served you like a friend. You couldn't bear it. 'Brethren', they said. But there's nothing about 'brethren' in the tactical handbooks, is there, Baron?"
"Shut up."
Ven Klaeden said it quietly, as if bored. He crossed slowly to stand before the analyst and stare at him icily.
"You speak of the unconscious inheritance of culture, analyst—the kulturverlaengerung. And you have accused me for being a carrier of the war plague, eh?"
Meikl paused. The baron's eyes were narrowed, stabbing as if in judgment or triumph.
"Well, Meikl? Is that what we've done? Inflicted them with conflict? Brought back the old seeds of hate?"
The analyst drew himself up slightly. "You just killed a man, a man of dignity," he snarled, "and you cut two others down like weeds."