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I caught her by the snake-like braid of her hair, though I didn't know I was doing it, at the moment, and swung her about so that my face confronted hers. "Where's my boy?" I demanded in a sort of shout of mingled terror and rage and dread. "Where is he, you empty-eyed idiot? Where is he?" But that half-breed, of course, couldn't tell me. And a wave of sick fear swept over me.
Several things contributed to this impression. The eight people all had the same blank expression watchful yet empty-eyed. They all moved in the same slithery crouch. And they had all taken off their shoes. Perhaps, Gusterson thought wildly, they believed he and Daisy ran a Japanese flat. Gusterson was being held by two burly women, one of them quite pimply.
He dutifully pretended fascination with the towers, the many-leveled roads, the giant dams and pylons, but his thoughts were racing. The eighth color! There can't be too many suns of this color, or they'd have named it and known it! And telescopes can find it. Could success be salvaged, then, at the very edge of failure? Maybe he need not go empty-handed, empty-eyed, from the Lhari worlds!
He bowed his head vaguely, and if any had been there to listen within ten short minutes they might have heard two horses galloping hard towards the Seville gate. Now, escorted by pages and torch-bearers, the new-wed pair repassed those dim and stately halls, the bride, veiled, mysterious, fateful; the bridegroom, empty-eyed, like one who wanders in his sleep.
Hungry, empty-eyed, ranging, feverish, he lashed up and down his prison-room, with bare teeth gleaming, and desperate soft strides. No thought he had but mere despair, no hope but the mere ravin of a beast. He was across the room in four; he turned, he lunged back; at the wall he threw up his head, turned and lunged, turned and lunged again. He was always at it, or rocking on his bed.
On the farther side of the meadow, almost hidden from sight, was a square log cabin, solid, gloomily shaded and staring empty-eyed at a tiny, clear stream where the horses scared an eight-inch trout out of a pool when they lowered eager noses to drink thirstily.
"What do you mean?" Larry Kirk put his question blankly. "Nothing, except that you know Len or ought to. He's the present-day Othello, sulking because he can't get a dance with his wife. It's barely conceivable that he's not aching to have it rubbed in." "Can't get a dance?" repeated the empty-eyed youth perplexedly. "Why?" Thayre snorted.
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