«Drink as much as you want,» said Blade. He spoke quietly and politely, as he would have spoken to a female guest in his own London flat. «There is plenty of water and food. I do not wish to harm you in any way.»
«You are-who?» the woman said. Her voice was low and husky, more with strain than with anything else. Blade nearly sighed with relief. He had seriously begun to wonder if by some mad joke of fate the woman was a mute! That would have meant a thousand kinds of unwanted fun in trying to interrogate her about the Looters!
«I am the Mazda of the people of the land of Tharn,» he replied. «I lead them in their wars.»
«My name is Silora,» the woman said. «I am a-«She stopped suddenly and her mouth clamped shut.
«Yes,» said Blade. «You are a-?»
«Why should I tell you?» said Silora, her voice chilly. «You are Principal Technician of War for your people. Anything I tell you, you may use against mine. You are an enemy.»
«I do not know that this is so,» said Blade. «Even if it is so now, it need not be so in the future. But I know almost nothing about your people, so how can I tell? You know practically nothing about the people of Tharn, so how can you tell either?
«I ask you to think this over. In the meantime you are free to walk about, drink, eat, bathe-to make yourself as comfortable as you wish. As I said, I do not wish to harm you. You have no good reason to wish to harm me, either.» Blade rose and went to the hatch, opened it, and stepped out onto the platform, leaving the hatch open.
He wasn't going to trust the woman enough to leave her with any easy chances to try escaping or killing him. But he was going to trust her to respond to decent treatment and no threats.
Besides, there was that intriguing possibility that the Looters might be two different peoples in an alliance. An uneasy alliance? Possibly. An alliance that might be broken? Also possibly. If he could just learn enough- Blade stepped down off the platform and started walking around the machine, trying to walk off some of his impatience.
He kept walking for an hour, moving in wider and wider circles, farther and farther from the machine. Finally he walked over to the shore of the lake and hid himself behind a bush, watching the machine carefully. If Silora took this apparent chance to escape, it would mean she was absolutely desperate. She would have to be desperate, to walk away barefoot into the endless plains of this unknown land. If she was even more desperate but cooler-headed, she might try to fuse the atomic bomb and set it off.
She did neither. Blade spent two tedious hours under the bush, broiled by the sun and jabbed and nibbled at by assorted bugs. At the end of that time he rose and walked back to the machine.
Silora was asleep on the floor again. An empty food container beside her showed that she had eaten. Blade bent over to listen to her peaceful breathing. So far so good. She was not desperate, at least not now. But she might take a long time to become friendly, if she ever did.
Silora didn't become particularly friendly during the next several days they spent camped by the lake. But she didn't need to. If she had been facing one of the people, the odd phrases she let fall might have been as meaningless as the gruntings of a pig. But Blade was a trained and expert interrogator. He knew a good deal about the Looters and had guessed a good deal more. He could make Silora's most casual phrases into pieces of the puzzle he was assembling.
He suspected more and more that the Looters were actually two people. But he still wasn't sure. He was still less sure what the exact relationship between those two peoples might be. Could they possibly be turned into enemies, in the ancient tradition of «divide and conquer?»
He could risk asking Silora directly, of course. But that might shatter the slim trust in him she had let herself develop. She could turn silent and sullen again. Would Anyara-or even his own son-give him the extra time to win her trust again? Could he win it? If he couldn't, sooner or later they would ask him to turn her over for torture. He would refuse-he knew it. What would the people and his own son say then, if he refused something that might save them?
Damn! There were risks either way. He could decide which course to take almost as well by flipping a coin as by any other way.
Evening came down on the plain, the evening of their fourth day at the camp. Blade had put arrows into a couple of gopherlike animals that stuck their heads up at the wrong moment. Now they made a savory smell as they roasted on a spit over a campfire laid out on the shore of the lake. Smoke rose into the darkening sky and the light of the fire glimmered on the gently rippling water of the lake.
Silora sat cross-legged on the grass, her freshly washed tunic and trousers steaming themselves dry on her body.
She still did not trust Blade enough to strip down in his presence, although he had gone naked day and night since the second day. This surprised her and made her nervous at first. But after a day she obviously became used to it. Blade even noticed her casting one or two interested looks at him.
He picked up the spit and cut it in two with his sword, handing her one animal. She tore greedily into the fresh, smoking meat, letting the grease ooze down her chin. That was another thing that she found hard to accept. Blade always served her first and made a special point of giving her the choicest pieces.
When they had both finished off their meat, Blade poured both their cups full of beer from the last skin bag. He drank, then smiled. «Silora, what is a 'Principal Technician of War'? What does he do, among your people?»
Silora did not stiffen or glare as she had done before. She only replied, «Why do you want to know?»
«Because I don't know if I am really one or not, among the people of Tharn. It's a strange title, and you've made me curious about what it might mean.»
«It means it is what the commander of the shtafari calls himself. It is not a title that is rightfully his, but he uses it anyway.» Both her eyes and her voice showed indignation.
Blade nodded. «And who-or what-are the shtafari? That's something you haven't mentioned before.»
He caught the sudden tightening of her lips and the veiling of her eyes and laid a hand gently on one of her knees. «It just struck me-you know very little of how we live in Tharn. So why don't I tell you of it, and what I am as Mazda. Then you can tell me whether I am indeed a-a Principal Technician of War-or whatever.» He said the title as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth.
She nodded. «That-that seems fair enough. I would like to know more about you.» The curiosity in her voice was genuine. So was the curiosity in her eyes as they ran over his body again.
Blade launched into his description of life in Tharn. He didn't say very much about the history of the people or how they had ended up in their present situation. Instead he gave the impression that life in Tharn had gone happily along this way for centuries.
Blade got quite caught up in his own tale, enough to stop paying attention to Silora. It wasn't until he broke off for a drink of water that he realized she was staring at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He hadn't seen her eyes so wide since the day of her capture.
«What is it, Silora?» he said. «Has my face turned blue or something like that?»
Silora swallowed and shook her head. «No, it is-it is-it is-«
«It is what, Silora?» said Blade gently.