various bundles and heaps
that made no sense at first glance. There was no time to look
closer. Every fraction of his attention was focused on the muffled
and hooded men.

He had found the enemy.

Everything that had happened to him so far on Dis had been
preparation for this moment. The attack in the desert, the escape,
the dreadful heat of sun and sand. All this had tempered and
prepared him. It had been nothing in itself. Now the battle would
begin in earnest.

None of this was conscious in his mind. His fighter's reflexes bent
his shoulders, curved his hands before him as he walked softly in
balance, ready to spring in any direction. Yet none of this was
really necessary. All the danger so far was nonphysical. When he did
give conscious thought to the situation he stopped, startled. What
was wrong here? None of the men had moved or made a sound. How could
he even know they were men? They were so muffled and wrapped in
cloth that only their eyes were exposed.

No doubt, however, existed in Brion's mind. In spite of muffled
cloth and silence, he knew them for what they were. The eyes were
empty of expression and unmoving, yet were filled with the same
negative emptiness as those of a bird of prey. They could look on
life, death, and the rending of flesh with the same lack of interest
and compassion. All this Brion knew in an instant of time, without
words being spoken. Between the time he lifted one foot and walked a
step he understood what he had to face. There could be no doubt, not
to an empathetic.

From the group of silent men poured a frost-white wave of unemotion.
An empathetic shares what other men feel. He gets his knowledge of
their reaction by sensing lightly their emotions, the surges of
interest, hate, love, fear, desire, the sweep of large and small
sensations that accompany all thought and action. The empathetic
is always aware of this constant and silent surge, whether he makes
the effort to understand it or not. He is like a man glancing across
the open pages of a tableful of books. He can see that the type, words,
paragraphs, thoughts are there, even without focusing his attention
to understand any of it.

Then how does the man feel when he glances at the open books and
sees only blank pages? The books are there--the words are not. He
turns the pages of one, of the others, flipping the pages, searching
for meaning. There is no meaning. All of the pages are blank.

This was the way in whic