The man drew himself up, glancing at the robot at his back, then turning to face the prisoners. Fear was in his eyes, but brutality masked his face.
"I can order you killed," he said. "Don't drive me far." He glanced at the rifle and flame gun he carried. "Where did you get these weapons?" he asked Trent.
"Are they weapons?" Kimball Trent asked mockingly.
"I don—the Master says they are."
"Then they can talk?" Incredulity was in Trent's voice. "I thought they had no speech."
"They do not speak, not the way we do; but they make themselves understood." Perspiration slid in greasy drops down the man's face. "Where did you get these weapons?" he asked again.
The robot came into the room, staring glassily, tentacular arms swaying gently at its sides. Lura stiffened, pressed closer to Trent. He grinned, nodded at the metal man.
"Your dog?" he asked.
"Dog?" the man said puzzledly, turned his head.
And Kimball Trent flowed into action, leaping with the grace and darting agility of a panther.