Front matter (continued 2)

Craig crept back to his own saucer and wheeled it out into the open. Ten seconds later he, too, was climbing into Lysor's dark night sky.

Climbing—to what end, with every man's hand against him? Bukal or Zenaor, Baemae or barons, one and all sought his blood.

All but Narla.

Somehow, he had to reach her.

Grim, tight-lipped, he set a course southeast, veering just far enough north of the village so that he might pass Vydys' serfs undetected. Their very numbers might slow them. There was at least a bare chance that a lone man might reach Narla ahead of them.

Only then, as he sped on, he caught a sound.

He hesitated, straining his ears.

The noise came again—a muffled, rhythmic clanking.

Craig veered a fraction; raced towards the sound.

Below Craig, dots appeared against the blue-grey shimmer of the grasslands ... dots that crawled grimly, steadily southward.

He knew, then—knew what the dots meant, and the clanking. A chill ran through him.

These were heavy vehicles in motion! This was Zenaor's column, grinding towards the village. They'd passed the barrier far ahead of Bukal.

And Vydys' serfs would never stand a chance against their power, their numbers.

That left it up to him.

Only what could one man do?

Cursing, Craig circled far ahead of the raiders—searching the rolling hills below, praying for some miracle of terrain, some inspiration.

But no miracle came. There were only the grasslands, the great straggling herds of the djevoda.

The djevoda—!

Craig came up short. Here was his miracle! Here his allies!

Sideslipping his disc in a flashing arc, he surveyed the ground beyond the column.

The vehicles were following the low ground, moving towards a pass of sorts in the hills that sprawled east and west across their path.

Craig raced south again. A long way south, till at last he passed above the distant range and swept down on its far side.

How long did he have? An hour? Or only half that?

A knot of djevoda moved restlessly as his disc's shadow fell across them.

Craig slashed back closer.

Rumbling their irritation, the huge, ungainly beasts turned west, drifting towards the pass.

Craig searched out another, larger group and turned it, too. Then another. Another.

Across the hills, Zenaor's column was creeping closer. Sweat rilled down Craig's back. He crowded his growing herd of djevoda harder.

The beasts were angry now—bellowing their rage through the stillness of the night; lunging at him, tusks high, when he swept too close.

If he should slip or fall—! He shuddered.

Then the first of the creatures began to funnel into the mouth of the pass. Craig raced his saucer back, moving up others to press in behind the leaders.

Now, again, the clanking of Zenaor's carriers drifted to Craig. He maneuvered his disc in a tight spiral—climbing, climbing.

The grasslands fell away below him. The range spread out like a problem in tactics set on a sand table: here were the djevoda, straggling into the pass. Beyond the hills, Zenaor's column twisted towards them, snake-like, as if hastening to join battle.

Already, the lead vehicles were swinging south into the rift.

Craig plummeted down ahead of the first djevoda.

Roaring, they fell back.

The Earthman raced away in a monstrous circle—driving in the beasts, crowding them together in a milling herd that numbered hundreds.

The column was in the pass now, hurrying forward faster, as if its commanders realized the danger of such close quarters.

Craig rounded up the last straggling djevoda ... hovered just above and beyond them, waiting.

Down the pass, lights gleamed. Drifting dust set Craig to coughing. The rumble and clanking echoed like distant thunder.

Craig dropped to one knee on his disc; brought out his fire-gun.

The approaching lights shone brighter. A beam sprayed across the first of the djevoda.

The creatures' great, tusked snout-heads lowered. Huge feet churned up choking clouds of dust.

Craig held his breath.

The lead carrier rocked over a bump. Metal clanged on metal. The lights flashed into the djevodas' eyes.

It was a signal. With a deafening roar, a djevoda lunged forward.

The carrier's brakes screamed.

But already the mountainous beast was thundering down upon it. Like an avalanche of flesh and bone, it crashed into the vehicle. Screams clashed with the shriek of rending metal.

Craig blazed with the fire-gun at the packed, elephantine mass of animated death below him.

Bellowing with rage and pain, the whole herd swept forward—on into the pass, following the already-charging leaders.

More carriers braked and crashed into each other.

Then the herd was upon them, smashing at them. Green fire seared through the night, mingling with the crashing thunder of some other, heavier weapon. Craig glimpsed a djevoda torn asunder in mid-stride, its six massive legs gone suddenly limp and sprawling.

But no human power could stop that hurtling, murderous tidal wave of flesh. Through the whole column the djevodas raged—crushing carriers, overturning them, stomping them to masses of shapeless metal.

At the far end of the pass, the last of the vehicles wheeled about in blind, desperate haste. Engines roaring, they raced for the safety of the open grasslands.

Only then, flashing shapes lanced down out of the skies to the north. Men dropped from discs onto carrier-tops, clamping their capes across the vision-slits.

Vehicles ground to a halt. Crews stumbled out, hands high in panic and surrender.

Craig surged to his feet; sent his own disc climbing.

Too late. For now saucers hung above him, too, hemming him in ... saucers ridden by Bukal's lean, bronzed raiders.

And there was Bukal.

"Craig, friend—!" he shouted. "Hold, Craig Nesom!"

Craig stood rigid atop his disc.

But then the other was beside him, waving and laughing. "Can you forgive me, Craig? Without this blow you've struck, without the firing-sounds to guide us, we'd never have caught up with this column."

"And ... Narla—?"

Bukal swept the whole sky with his gesture. "Go to her, Earthman! After this night's work I'd even give you Zenaor!"

He signaled as he spoke. The discs above Craig moved aside.

His throat all at once too tight to speak, Craig waved back and spiraled his own disc upward.

But as he did so, another saucer swept down—a saucer ridden by a woman he'd never seen before, a woman with an anguished, strain-taut face. "Alien!" Her voice broke ragged. "Where is Bukal?"

"Here, T'clar!" He glided up beside her. "What is it? Is there trouble?"

"The village—" Again her voice broke, and for a moment Craig thought she was going to faint. Then, rallying, she burst out, "Bukal, the men from the estate of Lady Vydys—"

"Yes, T'clar—?"

"They were her guards, not of the Baemae."

A numb horror gripped Craig. He hardly heard the rush of words between them.

But ... he had to know.

He blurted: "The woman who was with me—Narla—"

And then, the answer: "Alien, it was she they came for. Now they are gone again—and she is with them!"

CHAPTER VI

Morning. Pale green morning, and the vast estate of dark Vydys the Cruel.

Bukal begged, "Give it up, Craig Nesom. There is no hope. Besides, this is between the Kukzubas, the barons. Vydys seized your Narla only as a weapon against Lord Zenaor. She will not harm her."

Craig cursed him.

The bronzed Baemae's lips drew thin. "What would you have us do, then, alien? Throw our discs against her defenses? Gut ourselves on her guards' weapons?"

Bleakly, Craig stared up at the shining ramparts. Bitterness seethed in him.

And yet ... was it his right to be bitter? These were brave men, dedicated to the Baemae's fight against the barons. But Narla was not of them. The things she meant to him lay between two only.

He said, "Forgive me, Bukal. You and your people—you have troubles enough. I could not give you more."

"Then what—?"

"I'll go alone."

The hot light left Bukal's eyes. He gripped the Earthman's arm. "No, Craig—"

"Yes, Bukal." Craig pulled free of the other's hand.

"But—"

Of a sudden Craig was weary of argument, of empty phrases. Tilting his disc, he raced away from the Baemae leader, skimming out as the swallow swoops, straight for the gates of Vydys' shaft-like Tower of Cadilek.

But green fire blazed from the port-slots. Veering sharply, Craig sped away again, climbing along the wall in the shelter of the angle bastion.

Then he had topped the lowest level's battlements. Leveling off, he glided across the roof to a point beyond the central obelisk where none could see him.

There, at last, he brought his disc to rest.

But no attack from above would baffle Vydys. Not after that night of blood of Torneulan.

Ignoring the roof-ports, Craig crossed quickly to the parapet along the rear wall. A coil of rope, stripped from his waist, gave him a line down. In seconds he was upon the ground.

Fire-gun in hand, then, he moved along the wall to a deep-set, shrubbery-shrouded postern.

The door opened at his first pressure. A dim-lit, stone-walled corridor loomed, inviting.

An invitation to death, perhaps....

Cat-footed, Craig slipped inside ... stood taut and breathless, waiting.

But no sound came, no sign of guards or trouble.

Craig's scalp prickled. This was too pat, too easy.

But trap or not, here lay his only chance at Vydys, his only hope of reaching Narla.

Shadow-silent, he moved down the hallway to twin kresh-wood doors, one set on each side of the passage.

Craig pressed each in turn. But they were locked; they would not budge.

Raw-nerved, he moved on again.

Now came a short stair, leading down. At the bottom, a heavy door barred the passage.

Walking softly, the Earthman descended. Reached for the door.

It swung wide before he even touched it. Light blazed, so bright he fell back a step, half-blinded. A voice said, "Welcome, Craig Nesom!"

The voice of Vydys.

Craig pivoted.

But now, behind him, the kresh-wood doors had opened. Guards stood at the ready, weapons poised.

Craig faced the light again.

It shone like a dazzling wall. Even shielding his eyes, Craig could see nothing for its brilliance.

Vydys' voice commanded, "Come forward, alien! I would not harm you."

He sucked in a breath; stepped across the threshold.

Hands shot out ... seized him ... held him helpless while they wrenched away his fire-gun and his dagger.

Then, incredibly, Vydys was saying, "Away, guards! Leave us." And he was free again and stumbling forward, the door slamming shut behind him.

Groping, he drew himself erect; turned, searching for the woman.

But still there was only the blazing silver light, dazzling him to blindness. Her laughter rippled out of nowhere, a sound to sting him to impotent fury.

He lashed out: "How long do I stand here, woman? Do you fear to face me?"

"Fear you—?" She laughed again, and now there was a new note in her voice, an element he could not name or place. "No, warrior, I do not fear you."

Even as she spoke, the dazzling light was fading. Like a wall dissolving, the veil of its brilliance fell away.

Vydys stood before Craig, high on a dais.

Blinking, he stared up at her.

The ripe lips curved into a smile. Sinuous cat-graceful, she moved towards him, sleek silvery body-sheath shimmering as she descended. "You see, Earthman? I told you I did not fear you."

He stared down into the midnight eyes, black and unfathomable as the void itself. "Then what—?"

The scarlet lips parted. She swayed against him. "Kiss me, alien!"

Involuntarily, Craig stiffened. "What—!"

The woman laughed softly. "Is it so strange a concept, alien? Am I so old, so drab, so ugly?"

Craig could find no words.

"We are as one in so many ways, Craig Nesom," dark Vydys went on. "Fear is not in us, nor yet mercy. We know what it means to strike with daring. Both of us hold ruthless to our hatred for Lord Zenaor."

Still Craig did not move. "And because we both hate Zenaor, I should kiss you?"

"If we stand together, we can defeat him." The dark eyes half mocked, half measured. "Some say that pain is my only passion. That is not true. I love also as a woman. There are men, Kukzubas barons, who would sell their souls for my embrace."

"Then why not give it?"

"Why—?" The throaty laughter rippled. "Because they desire me does not mean I want them, Earthling. I seek a man of blood and iron as well as passion—a champion to aid me against Zenaor."

In spite of himself, Craig smiled thinly. "Some might call that a tribute. To me, it seems left-handed."

Vydys frowned, ever so slightly. "I do not understand you, alien. Would it be such punishment to sit beside me, ruling Lysor?" And then, eager again: "For we can do it, with your valor and the weapon they say you received from the one called Tumek."

"The weapon—!"

"Yes. A crystal, to win power even over the Xumarian ourobos my spies say Zenaor plans to use against the Baemae. You have it, do you not?"

She drew closer as she spoke. Her hands slid over him, touched the jewel-case where it lay flat against his body. Before he could stop her, she had it out and open.

"So—! This is the thing! A pretty bauble...."

Craig didn't answer.

"How do you use it, alien?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know!" The smooth face stiffened. "Or ... is it that you won't tell me?"

Craig shrugged. "Have it as you want it."

For an instant the woman's nostrils flared. Then, once again, she was close to him—her breasts, her body, smooth and firm against him. "Please, Earthman! Do not make me believe that you are one of those who can love no woman!"

Craig held his silence.

A flush came to Vydys' dark, lovely face. She stepped back, eyes bright with anger. "Is it another, then—that blonde hag, Narla?"

Craig's fists clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

"It is, then! You'd scorn me for her!" Vydys' scarlet lips peeled back. "Very well! You shall have her—as soon as you give me the secret of the crystal!"

Sweat came to Craig Nesom's forehead. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

"You leave me little choice, then." Vydys was almost purring. "I must have protection against Zenaor and his ourobos. Unless you share the crystal's secret with me, I shall be forced to sell the wench back to her father for tanagree oil to drive off the slime-monsters."

Dry-lipped, Craig said, "So be it."

"But I had such pleasant fantasies of how I would amuse myself with her in my torture chambers!" Vydys' eyes grew wide and doleful. "There are so many things that one can try! And a young, nubile girl may live for hours...."

Craig bit down hard to keep from shuddering.

"But since you will not help me—" Vydys sighed, turned, walked up the dais. "At least, your death shall entertain my favorites."

Craig would have lunged for her, then.

But she struck a great gong sharply. Instantly, the dazzling light-wall blazed forth to shield her. Guards leaped from nowhere to seize the Earthman. Their blows made his head ring.

"To the pit with him!" Vydys cried shrilly. "To the pit!"

Craig's world resolved into a nightmare of dank corridors and blows and blackness.

Then, suddenly, he was in the open once again, tottering on the rim of a deep, walled trench that ran about a side-shaft of the Vydys' tower like a sort of moat.

"Look down, alien!"

Blear-eyed, Craig stared down into the pit.

Great tusks speared up at him. The bellow of an enraged djevoda rang in his ears.

Vydys said, "You and your Baemae friends are said to be clever with these creatures, alien. Especially with a whip." She turned to one of her retinue. "Give him the lash!"

The man brought out a long Baemae whip and handed it to Craig.

"Down with him!"

In seconds, Craig swung into the moat at the end of a rope-loop.

He was still staggering when the djevoda charged, thundering its rage.

Craig lashed out with the whip.

But without avail. The stinging lash brought a new roar of fury from the great creature. Savagely, it lunged again.

Barely in time, Craig leaped out of the way. Desperately, he ran through the trench in search of some exit, some chance for escape.

There was none.

Again the djevoda charged.

Once more Craig side-stepped in the nick of time.

Above him, on the pit's rim, Vydys laughed her silvery, sadistic laugh.

Hate surged through the Earthman ... hate mingled with fear.

Was he to die here—tusked high into the air; trampled under the great hammer-feet?

If at least the hell-bitch above only could die with him—!

He fell back to the moat's far edge ... but not at the djevoda. No. Higher, this time. Higher—and straight at Vydys!

The long lash slashed through the air. Almost lazily, it seemed, it drifted. The snapper lifted ... curled ... wrapped round Vydys' slim waist.

She screamed, then.

Too late. Because now Craig was surging back on the whipstock with all his strength, a savage jerk.

The woman lurched forward, across the parapet. Down the steep face she slid, straight into the trench.

Along the rim, tumult erupted. Guards shouted. Serfs raced this way and that. Fire-guns blazed down at the djevoda. A ladder appeared, shoved down from above.

Dropping the whipstock, Craig lunged for the ladder.

A guard was scrambling down it. Catching him from behind, Craig knocked him sprawling. When another head appeared above the parapet, Craig butted low, not slowing.

Blood—blows—violence. A race for the postern. As from afar, Craig caught the echo of Vydys' scream: "The alien! Stop him!"

So she still lived....

More guards. Veering, Craig darted through the nearest door and pounded through a maze of echoing corridors and stairways.

If only he could reach the roof, his saucer....

Locked doors. Dead-end hallways. Men racing towards him.

Craig sprinted towards a window.

Below lay the outer grounds.

Craig leaped.

As he did so, a familiar shadow swooped low—the shadow of a disc.

Bukal. He brought the disc down in a fast sideslip. "Quick—!"

Craig dived onto the saucer.

Then they were climbing—up, away from Vydys' Tower of Cadilek, away from guards and clenched fists and shouted imprecations.

Still panting, Craig said, "That was close, Bukal. Thanks."

Bukal didn't answer.

Craig craned round, peered up at him. "Bukal! What's the matter?"

The bronzed face stayed bleak and bitter. "It is the end, Earthman," he answered heavily. "The end of my people and their dream of freedom."

"The end—?" Staring, Craig fought down a numbness. "You don't mean—?"

"Yes." Bukal's slash-mouth twisted. "Zenaor has carried out his threat. In a hundred spots south of the barrier, the ourobos are unleashed against us!"

CHAPTER VII

Restlessly, the djevodas lumbered through the grasslands—a large herd, numbering over half a hundred.

A tension seemed to hang about the creatures. Great snout-heads lifted as if sniffing the morning breeze, then lowered again, swinging to and fro, watchful and surly.

"You see?" Bukal clipped. "They sense that today they are the hunted, not the hunters."

Frowning, Craig nodded.

"Come now. The nearest of the places we seek is farther south."

Craig tilted his disc, following Bukal as the Baemae leader skimmed his own saucer away, high above the ranges.

Below them, another herd appeared. Another.

Bukal shouted, "Observe, Craig Nesom! They move north—all of them!"

The Earthman stared. Bukal's words were true. The scene below was like some vast migration—a sudden shift that turned the behemoths ever northward towards the barrier that separated this free land from the tyranny of the Kukzubas barons.

Too, these new herds were moving faster, hardly pausing to tusk up the rich roots on which the monsters fed.

They crossed a river. Bukal drifted his disc in close to Craig's. "Watch, now. From here on we may find ourobos."

Even as he spoke, a wild scream of rage, of terror, rose from a distant group of the djevoda.

"Quick—!" Bukal raced ahead.

Craig followed, sweeping low behind him.

Then they were above the monstrous sextupeds—hovering, peering. Craig glimpsed grey movement amidst the green-gold grass-clumps ... a shimmering as of slime that crawled and eddied. He started to glide lower.

"No—!" Bukal cried. "Stop, Craig! Don't chance it!"

There could be no mistaking the urgency of his tone. Discing higher, Craig studied the ground below in careful detail.

Now it dawned on him that more than one grey splotch showed. Here lay another; there, two more. Like water, they seemed to seep across the land in slithering tendrils.

The djevodas were bunching now, crowding together. Their great feet hammered at the earth. They tusked up clods in sudden furies.

Bukal hung close. "You see? They are surrounded." His voice was bitter.

It was true. Everywhere, grey patches hemmed in the djevoda. While Craig watched, they linked and joined, eddying together ... grew larger, larger, till they lay on the range like a sodden, ever-spreading blanket.

The djevodas stomped and pawed. Rage echoed in their roaring bellows ... rage, and something more, something close akin to panic.

The grey took on new thickness. As if feeding on the very air itself, it piled in glistening layers.

Then, rippling in Boh's green glow, a tendril crept from the mass, slithering through the grass towards the djevodas.

Slowly ... slowly....

It touched a great foot ... curled about the ankle.

Still unaware, the djevoda started to turn.

The slime swirled about the foot—clinging, holding.

The djevoda's bellow went shrill with terror. Aware of the danger now, it lunged savagely.

The foot tore free.

But now panic was upon the giant sextuped. Roaring, it charged across the clear space, straight into the mass of circling grey.

Its fellows followed.

Like a hideous grey wave, the slime swept in upon them—miring them, surging high onto their lumbering bodies.

The djevodas screamed and slashed and struggled.

But it was as if they were wallowing in quicksand. Each lunge, each tusk-slash, only brought the grey tide rolling higher. Splattering, each grey patch grew as it touched its quarry. In bare seconds the wave-thing engulfed the struggling giants.

The last scream died, swallowed up in the grey death of the ourobos. Folds of slime rippled over final, paroxysmal spasms.

Shuddering, Craig whipped his disc into a tight, climbing spiral. The breeze was suddenly chill upon him, and he retched till his quivering stomach emptied.

Grim-faced, Bukal hovered beside him. "A pretty picture, is it not?"

Craig couldn't answer.

"So it goes everywhere across the grasslands. Like a tide, the ourobos sweep over the south, pausing and gathering only long enough to kill, then spreading out once more in ever-greater numbers...." His voice trailed off.

"But—is there nothing—?"

"—Nothing that will stop them? No." Bukal's jaw jutted, hard and angry. "No, Craig. Nothing. Our people learned that long ago, on Xumar, the ourobos' home planet. Tanagree oil injections will render man distasteful to them; otherwise even the barons' military stations there would have had to be abandoned."

"Then—the oil—"

"They do not like it; that is all. It doesn't harm them."

"Oh."

"Already, our villages are emptying. By tomorrow the whole of the free Baemae will be crowded close along the border. The day after—who knows?"

Craig frowned. "Tumek thought he had an answer."

Bukal's face didn't change. "Tumek lies in his grave, and Vydys holds his crystal." His bitterness ate like acid.

Craig had no words. Silently, he stared away, off across the rolling southern grasslands.

Was there no solution anywhere to this monstrous scheme of Zenaor's? Would other planets go down before it like the Baemae? And his own life ... must he resign himself to defeat and death? Was that to be his destiny, the end of his assignment here on Lysor?

Bleakly, he wondered.

Then, afar off, a moving speck appeared, racing through the sky. Craig stiffened. "Bukal...."

The Baemae shaded his eyes. "A disc," he clipped, tight-lipped. "More trouble...."

Together, Lysorian and Earthman lanced towards the approaching saucer.

Then it was close at hand, and Craig could hardly believe his eyes. For a woman rode it—a slim, young girl with golden hair that rippled and shimmered in the sunlight.

"Narla—!" he choked. "Narla!"

She swept close, then, and they grounded their discs on a knoll and she was in his arms again, laughing and crying at once.

Pushing her back at last, Craig held her at arm's length, feasting his eyes upon her. For today she was a different Narla. Her heavy Kukzubas cape was gone, replaced by the scanty scarlet halter and paneled belt of the free Baemae. A fire-gun hung at her hip, a jeweled ceremonial dagger across her thigh, and she carried one of the long black whips with which Bukal's men herded the djevoda.

Laughing, she pirouetted. "You see, Craig? This time I come as one of you, not Zenaor's kidnapped daughter."

Craig nodded. "Yes, I see. But—what of your father? How did you get here?"

A shadow crossed the lovely face. But the girl's grey eyes stayed clear, her voice steady. "Once, Craig Nesom, I told you that I was—would ever be—your woman. That is what brought me here; that only. My father took me from Vydys, yes, trading tanagree oil for my life. But he could not hold me. Not when you stood here, fighting with the Baemae. I fled from the Central Tower to an old friend among the Baemae. She gave me this garb and saucer, and told me where to find you. So, now"—she shrugged smooth shoulders—"I am here, to stand beside you."

Wordless, unable to speak, Craig again embraced her.

Only then Bukal was talking, breaking in upon them. "The ourobos come closer," he clipped. "There's no time to waste. My people need me."

Spinning their discs, the three took to the air and ranged north till they reached the river and the village.

The village. Tension crawled through it now, lined on every face, reflected in every movement. Men, women, children—they crowded round as the trio stepped from their discs.

Bukal searched the frightened faces. "What is it?"

"New nests of ourobos!" a man burst out; and another croaked, "Already, the djevodas are in flight. By tonight—"

He broke off. There was no need to say more.

"Then ... we have no choice." Bukal shrugged, bronzed shoulders heavy. "We must join the others along the barrier."

"Must we?" This from a woman. "Must we, Bukal—when we hold Zenaor's daughter as our prisoner?"

Taut silence echoed, sudden as summer thunder.

Frowning, Bukal looked down at the speaker. "What nonsense—?" he began.

But a man shoved forward and cut in upon him: "No nonsense, Bukal!" he flashed fiercely. "All morning, the amplifiers have been blaring across the barrier. Zenaor says he'll leave us free, safe from the ourobos, in trade for this wench and her alien lover!"

More echoing silence. More vibrant tension.

Then Bukal snapped, "Enough of this drivel! Zenaor's daughter or not, this girl's cast her lot with us. As for Craig Nesom—"

From one side, a rawboned, ape-like discman smashed a blow to the back of Bukal's head. The leader spilled to the ground.

Like wolves, the crowd surged forward.

Craig drove a fist into the face of the man who'd struck Bukal; lashed a kick to the groin of another, beside him.

Then green fire blazed, a blast that seared between him and the Baemae.

The crowd stopped short; fell back.

Fire-gun in hand, bronzed body glistening, Bukal lurched to his feet. Blood dripped from his earlobe. "You scum, would you buy your lives with treason?"

No one moved. No one spoke.

"Craig...."

The Earthman shifted to his friend's side in one quick movement. "Yes, Bukal."

The Baemae chief's eyes stayed on the crowd, his finger tight on the fire-gun's trigger. Face a bleak, expressionless mask, he said, "I see that I can no longer control my people. But at least you need not suffer for it. Take Narla and go!"

Wordless, Craig nodded. The girl beside him, he backed to the nearest discs.

The Baemae fell back before him. He could feel their eyes on his back as he spun the saucers. Their hate surged over him like the magnetic waves on which the discs lifted.

Into the air again, rising ... passing over palisades and circling hills, racing away northwest towards the barons' barrier.

Where could they go? What would they do?

Bleakly, Craig mulled dark thoughts. He was glad that she kept her own counsel, till he saw her brush at her eyes and knew she was crying.

Yet what solace could anyone offer her in this nightmare?

Now other villages passed below them. Grey folds ringed one, glistening in Yoh's white light as they closed in upon it.

Craig closed his ears to the screams of the doomed and sent his disc hurtling faster.

Then the black line of the barrier loomed ahead. The blare of amplifiers rose faintly.

Craig turned. "Hover here awhile, while I reconnoiter."

Mutely, Narla nodded. He sped away.

More villages, more djevoda, more grey patches. The amplifiers, bellowing: "Bring in my daughter, Baemae! Bring in my daughter and the alien!"

No refuge.

Craig circled back.

Only now, two discs swayed where one had hung before. And one was sweeping down on the other.

On Narla.

Craig whipped his own saucer higher, and then higher.

A man in high-fronted metal helmet rode the second disc, the one that was gliding down towards the girl. While Craig watched, he swung out his long black djevoda whip ... tilted his disc till it plummeted like a speeding arrow.

Craig raced towards them.

Now Narla, too, saw the stranger. She tried to tilt her saucer.

But the man in the helmet pancaked his disc down, level ... swung the whip. The lash curled round Narla's wrist.

She jerked back in a panic. Tottered.

Then her disc tilted and she was sliding—falling—

Craig careened his own carrier down.

The stranger's head came round. He clawed for the fire-gun in his belt-holster.

Craig shifted sharply. His disc's edge dropped. Before Narla's attacker could twist or duck, the edge hit him.

He bounced backward, out into empty air, flailing wildly. The handle of his whip sang by Craig's head.

With a desperate lunge, the Earthman caught it ... clung to it while Narla swung in a wide arc beneath him.

The stranger's scream died in the thud of his body striking.

Sweat-drenched, gasping, Craig maneuvered his own disc down till Narla's feet were on the ground once more. Another moment, and he was stumbling to her, hugging her shaking body to his. "My darling ... my darling...."

How long did they stand so? An hour? A minute?

Only then, at last, they were no longer shaking. Once more, Craig could taste her lips and smell her fragrance and feel the softness of her hair as it rippled like ripe rangeland grasses.

But with that consciousness came other things—a far-off scream ... a panic-straut knot of djevoda, fleeing ... the faint, rank distant scent of the ourobos.

Away, beyond the barrier, the amplifier bellowed, "Give up my daughter, Baemae! Give up my daughter and the alien!"

Narla's cheek was soft against Craig's ... softer than any satin. He kissed her eyes ... tasted the salt of the tears that welled from them.

His Narla, crying.

Again the amplifier roared its message: "Give up my daughter, Baemae! That is the price of life! Give up my daughter and the alien!"

Bleakly, Craig turned and looked back across the grasslands.

No longer were they a serfman's refuge. Not now. Not with the ourobos' slime upon them.

A flurry of movement caught his eye. Faintly, he heard djevoda bellow panic.

The panic that came with the ourobos. The same kind that turned free Baemae into wolves, hunting down his Narla.

"If you do not give them up, I'll know my daughter's dead and you will die with her!" the amplifier shrieked. "Give her up, Baemae! Give her up and live! Why should you care what happens to the alien, Nesom?"

Why indeed?

Tight-lipped, Craig pivoted.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, or in his eyes. Narla clung to him—grey eyes tear-filled, lips aquiver. "No, Craig! No!"

He held her to him for a moment.

Hoarse shouts. Djevoda screaming. Rippling eddies, grey and obscene, amid the green-gold of the grasslands.

"Give them up, Baemae! Give them up or die!"

Craig said, "It doesn't matter, Narla. Not really. I've fought and I've lost, and a man has to play the cards fate deals him. But there's no reason for the others, the Baemae, to die with me. Not if there's even the slimmest chance for them to live if I surrender. As for you, your father wants you back, that's all. He'll never harm you."

She was still sobbing as he lifted her onto the saucer....

CHAPTER VIII

The Central Tower of Torneulan, the Tower of Zenaor. Hard-faced guards. Echoing passageways. The bleak metal and leather of Zenaor's private chambers.

And Zenaor.

The Lord Zenaor, high chief of all Kukzubas barons.

The lean face was set in cruel lines now, the jet eyes narrowed to black diamonds beneath their heavy brows.

"So, alien...." His voice rasped, thick with menace. "At last you come to me, begging for mercy—"

"Mercy? From you?" Craig Nesom shrugged in spite of the guards' restraining hands, the shackles. "No, Zenaor. I beg nothing of you, neither life nor lenience. The things I've done I'd do again. I've given up only to stop this senseless slaughter."

"An altruistic gesture, alien," Zenaor chuckled. "But a trifle late."

He rose as he spoke and stepped to a paneled wall behind his seat. A carved section slid back at his touch, revealing a bleak, compact laboratory chamber.

A transparent, closet-sized cubicle stood on a stand in the compartment's center ... a cubicle whose every inch and crack and crevice seethed and eddied with the swirling grey slime of ourobos.

In spite of himself, Craig Nesom stiffened; caught the whisper of Narla's quick-drawn breath.

Zenaor pivoted, still chuckling. "You see, alien? Here we have ourobos!"

Craig nodded slowly.

"And what is the ourobos?" Zenaor was gloating now, caught up in the excitement of his own revelation. "It is what your science would term a thallophyte, Earthman—a semi-intelligent thallophyte, a sort of deadly, highly-mobile fungus for which no specific weapon has been discovered!"

"A fungus—!"

"Yes, alien! That's why no weapon prevails against it! Blast it, even with fire, and still asexual spores fly out, each to form the nucleus for another of its kind, a new ourobos!"

Craig's lips were dry. His voice shook. "Then—this planet, Lysor—"

"Lysor is doomed, you mean?" Triumph rang in the chief barons' voice. "Indeed it is, alien! Now that I've brought the ourobos from Xumar, nothing can stop them! Your sacrifice is wasted! There's barely enough tanagree oil to treat a handful of our barons!"

Craig choked. "No, Zenaor! Not even you could doom a whole race—"

But Zenaor still was speaking: "This is my answer to the free Baemae, Earthman! They wanted Lysor—they shall have it! As for the rest of us—my friends among the Kukzubas, a few loyal serfmen—I have ships already ramped to take us off to Odak, third planet of our system."

Craig stood numb, unable to move or speak.

So now, at last, he knew the truth—the secret behind Zenaor's dark dream of conquest.

Only now was too late. Now was a nonexistent second between the moment of the chief of barons' flight and the time when he'd lay down his challenge to a hundred, a thousand, other planets, backed by the horrid, devastating threat of the ourobos.

And Narla—

Slowly, desolately, Craig turned to look at her ... to see again the helpless anguish stamped on her lovely, horror-blanched face.

"Now you look to my daughter for solace, Earthman?" Again, it was Zenaor speaking. "You seek to drown the bitterness of death and failure in the knowledge that she, at least, will live because you came in and surrendered?"

New tendrils fluttered in Craig Nesom's belly. He swung back; stared at his lean, merciless captor.

"Shall I tell you more, alien—another thing you did not know?" The chief of barons bared his teeth in a grin that belonged on a bleaching skull. He leaned forward, voice dropping lower: "Though I raised her as such, Narla is not my daughter!"

The very walls rang with shock. Even the cold-eyed guards went rigid.

Zenaor said: "Her father was of the Baemae, alien—and I lusted after the Baemae wife who bore his daughter, Narla. So I slew him, and took wife and child alike into my harem."

"Father—Zenaor...." Narla's poise was cracking.

Ruthlessly, the other pressed on: "She is not of my blood, alien. No ties coerce me to forgive her treason. So she dies here with you—with you, and all my enemies, Baemae or baron!"

A madness seized Craig Nesom. Savagely, he hurled himself at his tormentor.

But the guards were too quick, too strong. Brutally, they jerked him back.

He writhed helpless, raging.

Only then a voice—a woman's voice, low and gentle as the hiss of the asp is gentle: "Your enemies, Zenaor—like me, perhaps?"

Craig went rigid. The guards, too; Zenaor; Narla.

A hanging moved aside. Dark Vydys the Cruel stood framed in a doorway—fire-gun in hand, liveried warriors behind her.

"Vydys—!" Zenaor's color was draining.

The woman laughed softly. "Surely, my lord, my coming does not surprise you? By way of a test, I injected some of the fluid you gave me into a serfman, then sent him out to meet the ourobos. But they swallowed him up as they would any other, so I came here to discuss it." Airily, she gestured. "Of course, there was some small difficulty with your men at the gates. My troops had to slay them—"

Zenaor sucked in air.

Vydys said, "Your plans for the spaceships—they please me. The fleet shall blast for Odak according to schedule." A pause. A cat's smile. "Of course, you'll not be with it. It's better that you stay here with the Baemae."

"Vydys, in the name of our ancestors—our common blood as Kukzubas—"

"I remember it, Zenaor. You shall not stand unprotected." Vydys brought a flat object from beneath her waist-cape, tossed it onto a table. "Here. I leave you this weapon."

It was the jewel-box that held Tumek's crystal.

Zenaor's fists clenched. "Curse you, Vydys—!"

She turned away as if he had not spoken. Smiling at Craig, she purred, "A last chance for you, Earthling. Would you join me?"

Craig's eyes met Narla's. Then, quietly, he said, "You know my answer, Vydys."

Her face contorted. "Die, then, you fool!"

She started to turn back to Zenaor.

Only then, incredibly, a fire-gun was in his hand, too, whipping up from beneath his scarlet cloak.

They fired together.

Vydys screamed in the same instant. For the fraction of a second green flame seemed to envelope her. A great black char-scar spread across her naked belly.

She tottered. Her guards lunged forward.

But already Zenaor was leaping into the laboratory chamber. Headlong, he dived for the transparent cubicle in the center and wrenched its hatch open.

Like a wave of slime, the ourobos belched forth, spilling across the floor in a hideous, writhing blot.

The foremost of Vydys' charging guards screamed and tried to stop.

Too late. He pitched into the fungous tide; screamed just once more.

A bubbling scream....

The room erupted into chaos. Alike, Vydys' men and Zenaor's fled in shrieking panic.

Craig thrust a foot across one's path; snatched a fire-gun as the man fell sprawling.

The room was empty, then ... empty save for dead Vydys and her guard, and Zenaor, and Narla, and Craig Nesom.

And the ourobos.

Coolly, Zenaor stood his ground beside the cubicle. Ourobos swept in close about his feet, then eddied back. They would not touch him.

He laughed; gestured. "You see, alien? The tanagree oil is in my veins; they will not touch me. But you...." He laughed again.

Craig said, "Much good may it do you, Zenaor. A corpse is a corpse, even if the worms won't eat it."

He raised the fire-gun.

Zenaor's laughter died. He half-turned. "Wait, Earthman—"

He whipped up his own weapon.

Craig fired.

Zenaor died.

Then Narla was in the Earthman's arms again, heedless of the ourobos' creeping tendrils. "So we die, Craig Nesom. But at least we die together."

Craig held her close. "No, Narla."

"No—?" He could feel her body stiffen. "But—what—?"

"I said no, Narla. We don't die. Neither of us."

She stared at him.

He said, "Don't you see? The ourobos—they're thallophytes. That's the answer." And then, when she still showed no comprehension: "Tumek knew. That's why he said his crystal was the only weapon that would stop them. And Bukal hit it right—by accident—when he looked at the thing and said it might as well be a lamp-lens."

"Craig, I don't understand—"

"I'll show you." Pushing the girl back, Craig took the jewel-case from the table where Vydys had tossed it and crossed to the nearest lamp ... carefully replaced the focus prism with the crystal.

The beam sprayed out, all green and purple.

Tilting the lamp, Craig brought it to bear on the encroaching slime of the ourobos.

Before his and Narla's very eyes, the creatures shriveled. The grey wave drew back.

Craig clipped, "This crystal concentrates some ray that's deadly to the ourobos, just as on my world quartz glass lets ultraviolet pass. That was Tumek's secret. Somehow, he discovered Zenaor's plans and then worked out this answer.

"Now, Baemae craftsmen can duplicate the formula and produce crystals by the thousands. It means the end of the ourobos."

He moved the light. More grey slime dried to sticky viscous blackness.

Then, arm in arm, together, he and Narla walked out into Yoh's bright noonday light, shining down on the free-world-to-be of Lysor.