"My—my hand—it knows," the native whispered.
Ven Klaeden glanced sourly at Meikl, losing his balance slightly, eyes glazed with pain. "He'll need it now, won't he, Analyst?" he breathed, then fell to the moss.
Evon stood up slowly, moistening his lips, feeling the grip of the sword and touching the red-stained steel. He peered quickly up at Meikl. Meikl brandished the gun slightly.
The low rumble of a dynamite blast sounded from the direction of the mines.
"You loved her too," Evon said.
He nodded.
The native held the sword out questioningly, as if offering it.
"Keep it," the analyst grunted. "You remembered its feel after twenty thousand years. That's why you'll need it."
Some deeds, he thought, would haunt the soul of Man until his end, and there was no erasing them ... for they were the soul, self-made, lasting in the ghost-grey fabric of mind as long as the lips of a child greedily sought the breast of its mother, as long as the child mirrored the mind of the man and the woman. Kulturverlaengerung.
The analyst left the native with the sword and went to seek the next in line of command. The purpose of the fleet must be kept intact, he thought, laughing bitterly. Yet still he went.