Evon lowered his hands, stood dazed and blinking for a moment. He glanced at Meikl, then at the girl. He knelt beside her, staring, not touching, and his knee encountered the blade of the sword.
"You have brought us death, you have brought us hate," he said slowly, his eyes clinging to the sword.
"Pick it up," hissed the baron.
"You will never leave. A party of men is wrecking what you have done. Then we shall wreck your ships. Then we...."
"Pick it up."
The native hesitated. Slowly, his brown hand reached for the hilt, and fascination was in his eyes.
"You know what it is for?" the analyst asked.
The native shook his head slowly.
Then it was in his hand, fingers shaping themselves around the hilt—as the fingers of his fathers had done in the ages before the Star Exodus. His jaw fell slightly, and he looked up, clutching it.
"Now do you know?" the baron gasped.