“Don’t touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol’s hand.

“What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron’s tone. The Lord’s thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.

Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman’s side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”

“If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”

Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers, the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the top of the smaller cylinder.

“This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.

The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese. Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would not have hesitated a second, Robinton thought.

Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger, he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror. He laughed uneasily and then took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.

“If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron—” Wansor began tentatively.

“Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.

“That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort, said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You’ve had more than your fair turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”

Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.

“Very interesting. Very interesting,” he said, his tone oily with amusement.

“That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.

He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.

“Enough of what—Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.