When he tried to lower his uncle to the floor of the burrow, he found that the body had become almost completely limp. Thomas lay on his back, his eyes staring without curiosity at the rounded ceiling upon which his forehead glow-lamp outlined a bright circular patch.
The heartbeat was very, very faint.
"Eric," he heard a weak voice say. He raised his eyes from his uncle's chest and looked at the painfully working mouth.
"Yes, uncle?"
"I'm sorry—about—what I got you into. I had—no right. Your life—after all—your life. You—my wives—the band. I led—death—everyone. I'm sorry."
Eric fought hard to hold back his tears. "It was for a reason, Uncle Thomas," he said. "We had a cause. It wasn't just you. The cause failed."
There was a hideous cackle from the prone man. For a moment, Eric thought it was a death rattle. Then he realized that it had been a laugh, but such a laugh as he had never heard before.
"A cause?" the Trap-Smasher gasped. "A cause? Do you know—do you—know what—the cause was? I wanted—wanted to be chief. Chief. The only—only way I could—do it—Alien-science—the Strangers—a cause. Everyone—the killings—I wanted to—to be chief. Chief!"
He went rigid as he coughed out the last word. Then slowly, like flesh turning into liquid, he relaxed.
He was dead.