Her face a mask of silent, volcanic
expressionlessness, she surveyed the remains
of her hand-picked staff and addressed them as one,
her eyes meeting everyone's gaze, at once,
her choked voice
a distant whisper
of ugly and musical tones. "That's enough,"
she lied. "We abort. Go home."
"But sir!" said the mate. "We can't! We're
not through!" With an almost imperceptible
wiggle of his hips, and a bat of his eyes, and a purse
of his lips, he failed to persuade her that this
was true.
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