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"The Nyjorders know you have the cobalt bombs, and they have detected your jump-space projector. They can't take any more chances. They have pushed the deadline closer by an entire day. There are one and a half days left before the bombs fall and you are all destroyed. Do you realize what that means " "Is that the message?" Lig-magte asked. "Yes," Brion said. Two things saved his life then.
The Disan hunched low, flipped the knife quickly from hand to hand, then thrust it again at Brion's midriff. Only by the merest fractional margin did Brion evade the attack for the second time. Lig-magte fought with utter violence. Every action was as intense as possible, deadly and thorough. There could be only one end to this unequal contest if Brion stayed on the defensive.
Brion wondered who this Lig-magte was who appeared to have killed Mervv. A forged cough broke through Brion's concentration, and he realized that Faussel had been standing in front of his desk for some minutes. Brion looked up and mopped perspiration from his face. "Your air conditioner seems to be out of order," Faussel said. "Should I have the mechanic look at it?"
They weren't expectant, their attitude could not have been called one of interest. But he had come to them and now they waited to find out why. Any questions or statements they spoke would be superfluous, so they didn't speak. The responsibility was his. "I have come to talk with Lig-magte. Who is he?" Brion didn't like the tiny sound his voice made in the immense room.
Dripping blood, exhausted, Brion stood over the body of Lig-magte and stared at the dead man's allies. Death filled the room. Facing the silent Disans, Brion's thoughts hurtled about in sweeping circles. There would be no more than an instant's tick of time before the magter avenged themselves bloodily and completely.
They have a message for you." The silence grew longer. Brion had no intention of making this a monologue. He needed facts to operate, to form an opinion. Looking at the silent forms was telling him nothing. Time stretched taut, and finally Lig-magte spoke. "The Nyjorders are going to surrender." It was an impossibly strange sentence.
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