Pryce stared back with hard eyes. Blood was trickling down his arms and dripping off his hands. He seemed to Roper perfectly like a hawk. A hunter. Something to whom the affairs of men did not matter in the ordinary way; whose thoughts were so instinctive that they bypassed the brain altogether, operating entirely on nerve and synapse. He was an order of magnitude faster in thought and deed than any other man that Roper had met. It was true: he was not much of a swordsman. But his movements were so uncompromisingly fierce, so violently rapid, that Roper could not imagine any skill that could
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