Meikl turned on him. "Now it's come to this, has it?" he snapped. "From the beginning, they were willing--even eager, to give what we wanted. Why did they _stop_ being willing?" "That's enough, Meikl!" "I've hardly started. You came here like a tyrant, and they served you like a friend. You couldn't bear it. 'Brethren', they said. But there's nothing about 'brethren' in the tactical handbooks, is there, Baron?" "Shut up." Ven Klaeden said it quietly, as if bored. He crossed slowly to stand before the analyst and stare at him icily. "You speak of the unconscious inheritance of culture, analyst--the kulturverlaengerung. And you have accused me for being a carrier of the war plague, eh?" Meikl paused. The baron's eyes were narrowed, stabbing as if in judgment or triumph. "Well, Meikl? Is that what we've done? Inflicted them with conflict? Brought back the old seeds of hate?" The analyst drew himself up slightly. "You just killed a man, a man of dignity," he snarled, "and you cut two others down like weeds." "Innocent old men." The baron's mouth twisted into a snarl. "They wanted nothing but to help us." "Yes, Meikl? And we are the barbarians, eh?" The analyst spoke disdain with his eyes. The baron straightened in sudden hauteur. "_Look down at the ground, Analyst_," he hissed. Ven Klaeden's sudden change of tone impelled him to obey. His eyes fell to the turf at his feet--moss covered sod, rich and dark beneath the green. The baron kicked a hole in the moss with the toe of his boot. "Tell me where the infection came from, Analyst," he growled. He scraped at the hole with his heel. "And why is the dirt so _red_ right here?" Meikl glanced up slowly. Two men were coming through the shrubs, walking warily along the path toward the clearing. Ven Klaeden seemed unaware. He leaned forward to speak through his teeth. "I give them nothing but what they gave our fathers--their own inner hell, Meikl--the curse they so carefully forgot. In their Eden." The man was mad ... perhaps. Meikl's eyes followed the men who approached through the shrubs. One of them carried a burden--the limp body of a girl, occasionally visible through the low foliage as they drew nearer. One of the men was a junior officer, the other a native. After a moment, he recognized the native.... "Evon!" As he called out, the baron whirled, hand slipping to the hilt of the ceremonial sword he wore in the presence of the Geoark. The men stopped. Meikl stared at the limp figure in the arms of the native. "_Letha!_" "Dead," Evon hissed. "They killed her for running...." They emerged from the shrubs into full view. The officer was holding a gun. "Put that away!" ven Klaeden snapped. The young officer laughed sourly. "Sorry, baron, I'm from the committee." "_Guard!_" "There's no one in earshot, Baron." "Fool!" Ven Klaeden arrogantly whipped out the sword. "Drop that gun, or I'll blade-whip you!" "Easy, baron, easy. I'm your executioner...."