Front matter

Legends spoke of a weapon too dreadful to use hidden somewhere among the stars—a weapon that was its own master—choosing its victims!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy September 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

CHAPTER I

Jarl Corvett selected the group—himself, Ungo, and five crewmen.

They left their great ship on the far side of Vesta; came down with the night in a fast raider carrier.

A hollow offered shelter. Like dust settling, they landed. Abandoning the craft, they pressed on towards their target. The hills fell behind. The final cordon was bypassed.

Then, at last, bleakly, they stared down at the sprawling building that had been Wassreck's workshop.

But lights beat on the white walls. Guards paced the parapets. The commissioner's own carrier thrust up in the courtyard.

Frowning, Jarl Corvett crouched deep in the shadows. Tension crawled his spine like a leather-footed palau. His own black thoughts pressed relentlessly in upon him: Is this where it ends, warrior? Is this the place, here under the Federation's dazzling Forspark lights on a tiny astroidal speck that men call Vesta?

Beside him, the darkness rustled. Scales brushed his arm. One-armed Jovian Ungo's hoarse whisper echoed over-loud in his ear: "Give it up, Jarl! Wassreck's gone, and they're ready. It's hopeless!"

"It was hopeless before," Jarl Corvett said tightly. "It was hopeless at Horla. But Wassreck came for me."

The Jovian's scaly hand gripped his shoulder in the darkness. "I know, Jarl. You're loyal. But this time—"

"Could you face Sais without trying? Could you tell her you'd left him?"

Ungo grunted, half-sullen. "Will it help if you're killed, too? Will it make her feel better?" He cursed in his own tongue. "Me, I still like living. I'm not ready to die yet."

Jarl threw off the Jovian's arm. His words slashed, raw and savage, in spite of his efforts: "You can leave if you want to! I ask no man to risk his neck against his will!"

Dimly, against the sky, he could see Ungo's head sink down between the great, horny shoulders. "Don't gall me, you chitza! I go where you go! I always will!"

Jarl clenched his fists. He thought: Yes, Ungo will always go where you go, Jarl Corvett. He proved that when he left one arm on Pluto for you. That's what's wrong with loyalty. It traps you, tears you two ways. Because whichever road you take, good men, good friends, must die.

And Sais would be waiting....

He cursed aloud and crawled forward, away from big Ungo, digging in knees and elbows with savage force, taking out his fury on the rocky ground.

Ahead, just outside the blazing lake of light around the building, the air-vent loomed. Wriggling to it, he jerked out his knife and pried at the grilled lid's seal.

But then, once again, Ungo was beside him. "Here, let me at it, Jarl!" Heedless of danger, the Jovian surged to full height. His talon fingers splayed through the grill. The broad back, the mighty shoulders, strained and heaved.

There was a thin spang! of metal parting. The lid tore free.

Jarl gripped his comrade's arm. "Ungo...."

"Forget it, Jarl. I understand. Our job is down below."

A tightness came to Jarl Corvett's throat. Wordless, he swung his legs over the edge of the vent, lowered himself to full arm's length, and let go.

It was a six-foot drop into blackness so ebon that it made the outer night almost seem bright. Twisting, he crawled a few feet along the horizontal conduit that ran from shaft to building.

Ungo's gruntings drifted down as he wedged his great body through the hole. Then, with a thud, the Jovian, too, had landed. The other five followed, one by one.

"This way!" Jarl whispered. "The tube leads straight to the blower room."

Ghost-silent, they crept through the murk for what seemed miles. Fine dust rose about them in a choking haze, and there was an acrid stink of tanaline and jeol. Tiny bulaks chattered their fright, scampering from the raiders' path. The suction of the Banx unit at the tunnel's other end tugged at hair and tunics in a gusty, whistling gale.

Then, feeling ahead, Jarl touched a screen. He halted; half-turned. "We've made it. We're inside." Twisting, he ran his hand over the tube's side wall till he found the cleaning hatch. His searching fingers touched the bolt. He worked it round.

The hatch swung open on creaking hinges. Knife in hand, Jarl slid out into the blower room, with its looming bulk of Banx unit transmuters and converters and compressors.

A dim rectangle on the right marked the ramp to the floor above.

Cat-footed, flat to the wall, Jarl moved up the incline, the raiders at his heels.

A faint scuff of sound whispered in the stillness. Ahead, out of a cross-corridor, a Martian fala in the blue tunic of a Federation guard moved into view.

Jarl froze, not daring to breathe.

The guard crossed the ramp, not pausing, and went on down the corridor out of sight. The shuffle of his steps faded and died.

Jarl slid forward again till he reached the passage, then halted. Taut-nerved, he waited, listening.

Voices came dimly. Jarl lowered himself to the floor. Ever so cautiously, he peered around the corner.

Far down the hall, the guard stood chatting with one of his fellows. A moment later, breaking off, he turned and started back towards the ramp again.

Jarl drew back. Rising, he wiped the sweat from the palm of his knife hand, then crouched waiting.

The sound of the fala's footsteps drifted to him, closer and closer.

Jarl sucked in air.

The scuffing echoed through the silence. The guard stepped out onto the ramp.

Jarl leaped forward—catching the fala's chin from behind, jerking back the ugly head, slashing at the throat.

The guard's cry died in bubbling purple blood. He wrenched spasmodically, hands and feet threshing; then went limp.

Jarl dragged him backward—out of the corridor, down the ramp. Breathing hard, he lowered the sagging corpse to the floor.

Ungo touched his arm, gestured questioningly.

Jarl whispered: "The living quarters are upstairs. They'll have her there."

The Jovian nodded, not speaking.

Again Jarl dropped flat and wormed forward, searching the corridor.

No one was in sight.

Surging to his feet, he swung right down the hall to the next ramp, his crewmen behind him. Swift, silent, he raced to the second floor.

There were no guards here—only echoing stillness and blank, closed doors.

The first room was empty. In the second snored a sleeping dau captain from the Federation fleet.

Big Ungo whispered hoarsely, "This one's locked!"

It was the door at the end ... the door to the room that had once been Sais'.

Jarl pressed against it. Sheathing his knife, he brought out a light-gun and pressing its muzzle against the lock, squeezed the trigger.

The silent beam blazed forth. The lock's bolt fused and fell away.

The raiders pushed into the room.

A girl lay in the bed, asleep. Quick, tight-lipped, Jarl crossed to her side.

She was a vision of slim blonde loveliness, this woman. A golden vision from a far-off world. As he looked at her, the thought flickered through Jarl Corvett's mind: She's almost as beautiful as Sais.

Dark Sais, Ktar Wassreck's daughter....

Yet even while the girl slept, a deeper, darker mood seemed to shadow her loveliness, as if she held some brooding secret locked within her. Or perhaps it was only that a strain of clouded alien blood ran in her veins, from her mother—blood of Titan, or Io, or Venus.

"Is this her, Jarl?" big Ungo whispered. "Is she Ylana? Time's running short...."

Jarl shook off his mood. "Yes. She's the one, the commissioner's daughter." He caught the girl's shoulder and jerked at it roughly, one hand to her mouth, in case she should scream.

She came awake with a start, grey eyes flaring wide in sudden panic. Her whole body convulsed as she saw the raiders.

Jarl threw himself on her, bearing her down. Fiercely, he whispered, "Quiet, if you wish to live!"

Her struggles ceased. Lips pale, breasts heaving, she lay stiff and unyielding.

He said: "Relax, woman! We're not going to hurt you."

Her lips moved on his palm. He raised his hand a fraction.

"Who are you?" Her voice shook. "What do you want here?"

"They call me Jarl Corvett."

The girl clutched her throat. "Jarl Corvett, the raider? The ally of Wassreck—?"

Jarl smiled at her thinly. "Ally, friend, comrade, brother. That's why I've come here. I needed a hostage."

"A hostage—?"

"For Wassreck. He's a prisoner. You'll buy his freedom."

The grey eyes distended. The girl breathed fast and shallow, ripe lips half-parted. "You madman—!" she whispered.

Jarl Corvett laughed harshly, and there was ice and fire in it. "Some say so. But Wassreck saved me at Horla. Tonight I've come here to pay back what I owe him."

"Jarl!" Ungo broke in, raw-voiced and urgent. "Quick! Hurry! They will find that dead guard any minute!"

"Yes." Jarl raised up. He spoke again to the girl—bleak, cold, rock-steady: "You're coming, Ylana. As to how—you do the choosing. But even if we have to tie you and gag you and carry you, you're coming!"

The girl's grey eyes probed his. Color came to her lips; they no longer trembled. "You mean—you really believe you can storm in here and take me? That your handful of raiders can fight through the cordon—?"

"Freemen have done more."

"Freemen—?" Ylana's laugh was tight, bitter. "What do you and your outlaws know about freedom? To you, it means nothing but freedom to murder, to plunder!"

Her words stung like gas-hail slashing down upon Pluto. Jarl felt his breath quicken. "Who are you, to talk of the outlaw worlds and their plunder?" he lashed back at her fiercely. "What of your father's own fleet; your thrice-cursed Federation?"

The girl blazed. "The Federation brings order!"

"And what is your order but another name for plunder—the great planets' power to take what they choose from the lesser?" Jarl choked on his anger. "To you, I'm a pirate, because men like me sweep the void in our own raider ships to keep our people from starving. What else can we do, living on these barren rocks in the Belt, charred fragments of worlds that should never have been colonized? But your father—with no right on his side but the Federation fleet's might, he's named high commissioner—sent out to tear even our bleak asteroids from us by conquest—"

"Jarl—!" burst out Ungo.

"I'm coming!" Jarl towered over Ylana. "Get ready!"

The girl sat up in her bed. Her fists gripped the covers. "I warn you, Jarl Corvett: You'll curse the day that you took me—"

"Because of your father?" Jarl laughed, short and curt. "I'll still chance it."

"No." The girl's grey eyes seethed, dark and dangerous. "Because of me, Ylana rey Gundre! Because I'll see you and your men die in torment, a thousand times worse than the flame-death at Horla—"

"I'll chance that, too." Jarl jerked back the covers.

Wordless, disdainful, the girl tossed her head. The golden hair rippled. Rising, she took a gown from a chair and pulled it about her slim, perfect figure.

"That's better." Jarl turned to Ungo. "We'll go down through the workshop. There's less chance there to trap us."

In hair-triggered silence, they moved back through the hallway, the girl boxed among them. A different ramp yawned. The door at its foot let them into the workshop, the place of the robots.

Wassreck's robots.

A name to conjure with, Ktar Wassreck. Master of robots, master of raiders. The brain of a genius in a pain-shriveled body. A mind that had fathomed the key to the star-stones; courage to strike even through Oyo's flame-death, staking his soul for Jarl Corvett at Horla.

And here were his robots—towering metal monsters, set shoulder to shoulder. He dreamed of them, lived for them. More even than dark Sais, they were his children.

Children of a nightmare, Jarl thought as he led the way past them. Bleakly, he wondered why Wassreck had made them—what dark, twisted drive had spurred their creation.

They came to a door. Jarl faced his raiders. "The hallway's outside. The third ramp to the left leads down to the blowers."

He turned to the girl, the commissioner's slim daughter. "Stay with me, Ylana. And forget about running or screaming."

She moved closer, not speaking. The grey eyes were unfathomable.

He stepped into the passage, the girl close behind him. The crewmen followed.

Then, as they came abreast the second ramp, he heard voices—a harsh, angry crackle that rose louder each second.

Jarl stopped in his tracks and spun round to the crewmen. "Quick! up the ramp—!"

Gripping Ylana's wrist, he half-dragged her with him.

Barely in time, they crowded into the entry. Down the hall, by the blowers, someone cursed loudly. More footsteps pounded. Metal banged metal.

Big Ungo burst out, "It's that guard, Jarl. They've found him—!" He clutched at his blaster—head down, geared for battle.

Now new steps hurried towards them, from the way they had come.

Jarl whipped out his light-gun. "We're not done! The commissioner's carrier is out in the courtyard. We'll blast our way to it!"

"Which way—?"

"Back up this ramp! We'll drop from a window!"

They sped up the incline to the second level, then down the corridor. But before they could reach a room that opened on the inner court, tumult broke out on this upper floor also. Guards shouted. There was a beat of feet; the clamor of men rushing towards them.

Jarl leaped for a doorway. "In here—on the double!"

His men crowded past him. Shoving Ylana before him, Jarl followed. Inside, he half-closed the door.

Like statues, they waited. The hurrying guard squad came closer.

Jarl gripped Ylana tight, her slim body hard against him. He cupped his hand over her mouth. The golden hair brushed his cheek. He could feel her heart pounding.

The first of the blue-uniformed Federation fighters ran past the half-open door.

Jarl poised his light-gun.

In the same instant, lance-sharp pain stabbed through the hand he held over Ylana's mouth.

He jerked back by instinct—and knew of a sudden even as he did it that the girl had bitten him.

But his flinching left Ylana's mouth clear for an instant. She screamed, shrill and piercing.

Jarl cursed. He tried to throw her aside.

But she clutched his belt, clinging. Snatching his razor-edged knife from its sheath, she slashed at him.

He rocked backward, off balance.

The girl twisted. He glimpsed her face—teeth bared, features strain-straut. Back-handed, she lashed at his temple with the knife-haft, her full strength behind it.

It struck home as the first guards burst through the doorway....

CHAPTER II

Twin blue-and-silver Federation banners marked the place of the high commissioner of all the asteroids.

His table stood at the far end of the vast room that had been Ktar Wassreck's workshop. Other tables radiated out in a great arc from it—tables crowded with officers of the Federation fleet. Heavy-thewed Uranian daus sat side by side with slim reptilian Pervods. Transmi of Venus, all ear-stalks and sucking tubes, faced rubbery, flat-featured Europans. Creatures of half-a-hundred divergent races, hybrids and mutants, they gathered here from all the far-flung planets of the Federation. Their rising voices clashed in strange cacophony through the tinkle of cutlery and crystal, thrown back in a din of ringing echoes from the giant metal robots that still lined the walls.

Straightening in spite of the weight of his shackles, shrugging off the hands of the guards who flanked him, Jarl Corvett met the seething hostility of their glances with stiff-necked defiance. But underneath, questions nagged him: Why am I here? Who ordered me brought to this banquet?

But here he stood. That was what counted. Boldly, he surveyed the room ... stared unflinching across at the commissioner.

A handsome man, Commissioner rey Gundre. Heavy-bodied and aging, in these later days. But still personable, still a figure to catch the eye, even slack-faced and slouched in his seat as now.

He was a man of Earth, plainly, with all the strengths and weaknesses and surging conflicts that went with that heritage. The sunburst insignia of his rank stood out against the deep blue of his impeccably tailored uniform. The white blaze that accented the darkness of his hair only made him the more striking.

His aide sat at his left hand, Ylana at his right.

Ylana the golden, daughter of the high commissioner himself.

And Jarl Corvett's nemesis.

Even looking at her here, Jarl could feel the muscles at the hinges of his jaws draw tight.

Tonight she sat slim and graceful at the banquet table in a scarlet stylon gown. Her blonde hair swept up in a soft golden nimbus like that of Tal Neeni, sea goddess of Callisto. The red lips were smiling, the grey eyes asparkle.

Yet even when she laughed, some dark inner mood seemed to shadow her beauty, even as it had last night while she lay asleep.

That shadow.... Was it alien blood, or a secret? Again Jarl caught himself wondering. He thought: I should hate her! And in the same moment: Even Sais is no lovelier....

Cursing himself for a fool and a weakling, he tore his eyes from her and studied the aide.

He was Malya, this officer; Malya and warrior. His dark rough-hewn face stayed emotionless, immobile. But the black Malya eyes ranged ceaselessly—bleak and watchful, never still. Ruthlessness was in them, and recklessness ... a spirit that seemed to mock Jarl Corvett and deny the blue Federation tunic that the dark aide wore.

Bitterly, Jarl looked down at his shackles. He thought of the Malyas among his own crewmen; the wild, free-born raiders.

How long would it be before they, too, wore the blue of the Federation?

Or before they died....

Now the commissioner stirred. Chin sunk on chest, he mumbled something to his rock-faced lieutenant.

The lean aide nodded briefly. Twisting in his seat, he pounded on the banquet table—first with his fist; then the butt of his heavy Talistan ray-gun.

The sound rose even above the tumult and raucous voices, echoing and re-echoing through the great room that till short days before had been Wassreck's clandestine robotics laboratory.

Slowly, the noise and voices died away. Chairs scraped. Heads turned. Eyes of Fantay and of fala, Mercurian and Martian, Chonya, Thorian, Pervod, searched out the table where the aide and the high commissioner sat.

Not quite steadily, then, the commissioner rose, a brimming kabat goblet in his hand. His eyes had the glassy shine of bright new mirrors, and his tunic was rumpled, twisted awry.

Swaying a little, the commissioner slapped loose-fingered at the blouse, as if to brush away the wrinkles. Kabat slopped from the goblet and spilled over his hand. Blinking, he looked down at the spreading green stain. A foolish grin flickered fleetingly on his face.

Ylana leaned towards him; spoke sharply.

The commissioner's head twitched. He straightened, and his shoulders snapped back to a too-stiff 'attention'. Jerkily, he raised his glass.

"A toast to our host, officers!" he cried in a drink-thickened voice. "A toast to Ktar Wassreck—may he rot in hell!"

Leaden silence came down on the room like a curtain. Furtive glances flicked out to the towering robots, shoulder to shoulder, that lined the walls.

It made Jarl Corvett smile a little, the way the officers hung back. Did some recall H'sana? Were others on Pallas? Free or captive, Ktar Wassreck still put cold fear in them!

Ktar Wassreck: Outlaw, scientist, scholar. Wassreck at Horla—gnome head tilted, eyes burning, laughing in the face of death. Wassreck ... and Sais....

Spasmodically, Jarl's fists clenched. His bruised head throbbed dully.

"To our host!" the commissioner cried again, lurching forward. "To Wassreck—"

The spell broke. The officers surged to their feet. Their shouts rang through the clamor: "To Wassreck—"

"—May he rot in hell!"

They drank it down.

Fury swirled up in Jarl Corvett, hot and all consuming.

Swaying, face flushed, the commissioner clutched a decanter. He spilled more kabat into his goblet. "Now—one for Corvett! A toast to Jarl Corvett—"

He broke off as Ylana tugged at his tunic. Lines of angry tension slashed the smooth loveliness of her face. Her lips moved, wrapping round curt syllables.

Her father laughed drunkenly. He turned towards the doorway where guards and raider stood, and his hand swept up in a clumsy broadside gesture. "Drag him out!" he shouted. "Flush the chitza out of his hole!"

The two Mercurians who flanked Jarl closed in. One clutched his arm.

Jarl's fury seethed higher. In spite of his shackles, he jerked free of the Mercurian's taloned hand. He felt cold arrogance ring in his voice: "No one drags Jarl Corvett! I'll walk alone!"

For the fraction of a second the guards stood hesitant, lobed eyes clouded beneath their nictitating lids.

Jarl swung his arms back sharply. The chains of his shackles whispered, link on link, like a flexing metal knout.

The Mercurians' eyes fell. Contemptuous, ignoring them, Jarl turned away. Head high, back unbending, he strode towards the table of the high commissioner.

The Earthman smirked at him, still swaying.

Recklessness sang a death-song in Jarl Corvett's veins.

"Hail, coward!" he cried fiercely, and swept the crowd with a scathing glance. "Is this the best your Federation fleet can offer—scum so low that they draw their sport from taunting prisoners? Huroks so green with fear that you must bring me here in bonds?"

An angry babble rose from the tables, and the commissioner's kabat-heavy lids drooped lower. But his lips twisted in the mirthless semblance of a smile.

"Do you rate yourself so high that you think I'd waste time on you, starbo?" He laughed, deep in his throat. "No, brigand! You're here against my will!"

"Against your will—?"

"Yes. You're here to face another—one whom even I cannot deny, after what you've done."

Wordless, narrow-eyed, Jarl studied him for a moment. "Then who—?"

"Who would it be?" This time the commissioner's laugh was sour and savage. "Can you not guess, yanat?" And then: "My daughter, Ylana."

"Your daughter—!" Jarl pivoted to Ylana.

"Yes!" The girl came to her feet as he turned, grey eyes blazing. Her words burst forth in a scalding flood. "Did you think I spoke empty words when I swore last night that you'd live to curse the day you tried to seize me? Did you take my promise for a hollow threat—?"

She broke off; swept round the table, a furious vision in gold and scarlet. Her hand flicked up in a tight, peremptory gesture. "Atak! Seize him—!"

The commissioner's rock-faced Malya aide closed in on Jarl, moving round behind him.

Ylana raised a shaking fist. "On your knees, stabat!"

A numb incredulousness crept through Jarl Corvett. But he stood the straighter. "I kneel for no man—nor for woman!"

A savage kick in the back of the knees caught him from behind in the same instant. His legs buckled. He spilled forward, asprawl on the floor.

"A whip—!" cried Ylana, face white with passion. "A whip for this raider dog they call Jarl Corvett!"

One of the Mercurian guards sprang forward, jerking off his heavy, stanal-buckled belt. "Here, Shi Ylana! The plate will cut deep!"

The girl snatched it from him. Her face contorted.

"No, Ylana—!" It was her father, the kabat-haze fading from his eyes. "Would you drag yourself down to the level of this chitza, here before officers of the fleet—?"

The girl turned on him as a quirst turns on its pursuers. "Who talks of dragging down, and of the fleet?" she lashed fiercely. "Do you dare to speak—you, with your plots and schemes, your secret meetings—?"

The high commissioner flushed to the hair. "Ylana! Silence!"

"Was it you this starbo and his scum dragged out of bed last night? Was it you who screamed and called the guard when they sought to flee in your own carrier?"

Her father's jaws went stiff and set. His clenched fists bore down upon the table. But he broke before Ylana's eyes; said nothing more.

The girl turned her back on him. Furiously, she challenged Jarl: "You were brave enough last night, when you dealt only with a helpless woman! But how is your courage now, bold raider? How does force taste, when another hand holds the lash?"

Her shoulders twisted. Gripping the Mercurian's belt by the tongue, she slashed out with the heavy stanal clasp.

Jarl rocked back. The buckle sang past his face, so close he could feel its breath.

But now, again, the Malya's foot caught him from behind. It knocked him forward on his shackled hands, off balance.

Before he could recover, the belt whipped down again. The buckle tore at his cheek. He rocked with pain.

"Is it different, this time, raider?" Ylana shrieked. "Are you ready to sing another song?"

Tight-jawed, stiff-backed, Jarl met her gaze. He did not speak.

The girl's red lips peeled back. "I asked you a question, dog!" she cried. "I want an answer!"

She slashed out with the belt again. The buckle seared his jaw and neck.

"Answer me!"

Wordless, Jarl swayed.

The buckle ripped at his forehead. Blood gushed down into his eyes.

"Answer me—!"

Jarl lurched forward, clutching for her. But she darted back, out of his reach. The stylon gown rustled. The buckle tore a path along his scalp. The room blurred and swam before his eyes. Desperately, he tried to cover his face with his shackled hands. But the tangled chains were too short. He could only double forward, face to the floor.

The buckle struck behind his right ear with stunning force, a fiery knife stabbing through a red haze of pain.

"Wait, Ylana—!" It was Atak the Malya's voice, drifting dimly to Jarl as from afar. "Those blows to the head—he cannot last—"

"Then drag him up! Tear off his tunic! Bear his back, so that I can see the red blood run!"

Hands clawed at Jarl's clothes. He felt his tunic rip away. The aide dragged him up; twisted him about.

"Hold him there, Atak! Hold him tight!" came Ylana's cry.

The buckle seared Jarl's back—once, twice, a dozen times.

"Speak, starbo! Beg for mercy as you made me beg—!"

Jarl fought against showing pain as the girl brought the belt down on his back.

Jarl cursed her with a raw, pain-surging hate; cursed her with all the black epithets of a raider and the warrior worlds.

"Still stubborn, chitza—?" Wild hysteria was in Ylana's voice. The buckle bit in again.

Atak's hoarse whisper rasped in his ear: "You fool, give up! The woman's mad! Even a raider should know that there's a time to crawl!"

Jarl clenched his teeth.

The girl cried, "You see, Atak? He loves the lash—!"

She struck again.

The commissioner's voice slashed harshly, the fog of drink long gone: "Ylana! You'll kill him—!"

"You—!" The girl's contempt was a writhing, burning thing. "Where were you last night, you kabat-soaked sot? You, with your talk of duty, your fat-puffed pomp—"

Her father's voice went clipped and tight. "Enough, woman! Raider or not, this man's my prisoner. Tomorrow I'll ship him on to the Venus headquarters. He'll die in the slan-chambers there; not by your hand." The room echoed with the flat slap of his palm cracking down on the banquet table. "Atak! Get his tunic! Send him to his cell."

"Yes, Excellency...." The Malya let go Jarl Corvett's arms.

Blinking the blood from his eyes, the raider stood swaying. Still numb, still not quite believing, he stared at golden Ylana, in her scarlet stylon gown.

Now, her hair hung down, no longer nimbus. Her lips were pale, and her breasts rose and fell too fast. Madness gleamed in her dark-circled eyes.

She snatched the tunic from Atak. "Here! Let me...." Whirling, she ran to Jarl and thrust the wadded garment into his shackled hands. "Brave raider—!"

She spat full in his face.

The Malya aide caught her arm and jerked her back. "If you were not rey Gundre's daughter—" He cursed under his breath. "Get out! You disgrace us!"

Gripping Jarl's arm, he led him from the hall. "I cannot expect your pardon, Jarl Corvett. It would be too much to ask from any raider, any man. But in their day, my ancestors roved the void...."

His voice trailed off. Turning to the guards, he said, "Take him to his cell. I'll see that one of the fleet ktars comes on down."

Weak, tottering, Jarl let them lead him back to the old, thick-walled wing they had given over to the prisoners. He had not even the strength to curse when the guard, a Martian fala with all his race's fiendish love of cruelty, tripped him skillfully, so that he sprawled on his face as he crossed the threshold to the room that was his cell.

The door clanged shut on the Martian's ghoulish laugh. Sick with pain, Jarl dragged himself up and crawled to the bunk. Belly-down, he sagged onto the springless frame.

How long he lay there he never knew. It was all he could do to breathe, to be. The room about him was a reeling, distorted world of mists and feverish dreams.

Then, at last, that, too, passed. Wearily, he pulled himself upright and shook out his wadded tunic.

Metal clanged on the floor.

Jarl stiffened in spite of his wounds. Swiftly, he bent and felt beneath the bunk.

His hand touched metal. It was a knife ... a keen, long-bladed telonium fighting skrii.

For a long, long moment he sat in silence, gripping its heavy haft. Then, in the darkness, he slowly smiled.

A Malya was still a Malya, whether he wore the Federation's uniform or not.

Tomorrow they'd ship him to the Venus headquarters, the slan-chambers, death.

But this was tonight, the darkest hour, and he had a knife, and the high commissioner's carrier still stood in the court outside....

CHAPTER III

The fleet-bell was tolling the nineteenth hour before the ktar came down.

Lying in the darkness, waiting for him, Jarl battled in stubborn silence against the pain. He found himself giving heed to a thousand little things—the roughness of the pollard-weave against his lacerated cheek ... a prowling peffok's distant cry. Faint, pervasive scents of doloid dust, of must and jeol, pressed in upon him. He savored the raw taste of blood in his mouth ... the saltiness of sweat when he ran his tongue along his lips. Once, dimly, he caught the harsh rasp of Ungo's voice, drifting to him from some other room.

Ungo of Jupiter, Big Ungo the loyal. He'd come here, protesting, on a fool's mad mission. And now....

A flood of black doubt welled up in Jarl Corvett—doubt of himself, his world, his cause. Would his dreams end here, in this dreary cell? Would morning find him lancing out through space on his way to Venus and the slan-chambers?

And ... would Wassreck die?

Writhing, fists clenched, he tried to drive the vision of the burning eyes, the pain-racked body, from his brain.

But the image, the dark thoughts, would not go away.

Because Wassreck was on Venus already. Wassreck had no hope, save in him, Jarl Corvett....

An incoherent, protestful sound rose in his throat. Spasmodically, he gripped the bunk's chill metal frame; twisted as if to rend it, tear it apart.

The effort made his tortured muscles shriek with pain. His ears rang. The room rocked wildly. He gasped and sagged forward, plunging down through green-and-purple depths of icy fire into a bottomless, slowly-eddying pool.

Then the pool resolved. Of a sudden he was looking into Sais' dark eyes. She was smiling at him, a tender smile, and her fingers were cool against his cheek, her soft lips welcoming his.

But a misty barrier rose between them ... a barrier of heart and mind that seared like a white-hot iron: How can I face her? What can I say, if her father dies?

He cried aloud, a hoarse, choked cry, and Sais' face vanished. Once more, the room closed in upon him. Again he lay straining on the bunk—tasting the blood, drinking in the stink of doloid dust and jeol.

Sais, and Wassreck. Wassreck, and Sais.

He wondered if he'd ever see either of them again.

Somewhere outside, a vague new stir of movement broke the stillness.

Jarl stiffened. For a moment he grasped the knife. Then, relaxing, after a moment's hesitation, he slid the sleek blade out of sight beneath his leg.

The sounds drew nearer; finally paused outside his cell. A blur of muffled, grumbling words seeped through the door. The bolt clicked back.

It was the ktar, a dead-white, four-armed kroy of Ganymede. Flicking on the light, adjusting the vocodor translator, the creature brushed smoothly into the room. Behind him, the fala guard lounged idly back against the jamb, thumbs hooked in belt.

Jarl shifted, then lay still again, not speaking. He was thankful to Atak—thankful the Malya had sent a Ganymedan ktar. Few were more talented or highly skilled or kind.

The ktar crossed to him and set down the globe that held the impedimenta of the healing craft. "How is it, raider?"

Jarl grunted and lifted his shoulders a fraction in a shrug.

The ktar probed the cuts that gashed Jarl's back with deft, sure, pseudopodal fingers. "Nasty. That thrice-cursed stanal buckle bit deep." Swiftly, he cleaned the wounds and applied the healing gel.

Jarl winced and clenched his teeth.

"Up, now," the ktar commanded. "Let me at your face."

Stiffly, Jarl twisted. Keeping the precious knife covered with his buttocks, he swung his legs to the floor and sat up.

The ktar worked on in silence for a time. Then, at last, he straightened. "That does it." He laughed—wry, almost bitter. "By the time you get to Venus, you'll be in the best shape to die."

Picking up the globe, he pivoted and, with the peculiar floating motion of his kind, moved towards the door.

Jarl gripped the haft of the telonium skrii. Tension came alive in him, hot and quivering. Rising from the bunk, he followed the kroy, holding the knife out of sight behind him. "I thank you, ktar...." He dared say no more for fear his voice might betray him.

The Ganymedan muttered something incoherent and passed out into the hall. The fala guard, in turn, planted a many-jointed arm appendage hard against Jarl's chest and roughly shoved him back. His mottled throat-sac quivered. "No farther, chitza!"

Wordless, Jarl swayed. He made a show of cringing.

The fala laughed harshly. His bulging eyes flicked to the hall outside. Turning, he gripped the door-handle and started to pull the portal shut.

Jarl leaped at him like a pouncing zanth, stabbing for the throat-sac with the keen-edged skrii blade.

The point bit in, even as the Martian tried to throw up a warding arm. What might have been a shout came out as a rush of blood and bubbling air.

The fala tottered, coughing out his life. Down the corridor, the Ganymedan whirled.

Jarl snatched the ray-gun from the toppling guard's holster. His voice rasped, low-keyed and tense: "Don't make me kill you, ktar! I want only freedom, not your life!"

The kroy's eyes flicked down to the leveled gun. He stopped short—stiff, silent.

"Back here!" Jarl clipped. "Back in my cell...."

Wordless, dead-white face a chalky mask, the kroy slithered past him.

"Take him with you!" Jarl gestured to the fallen fala guard.

The ktar bent. His pseudopods locked onto the dead Martian's shoulders. He dragged the corpse out of the corridor, into the cell.

Jarl swept up the wave-pencil key from where it had fallen as the fala died. Tight-drawn as a Uranian tal-string, gun still lined on the Ganymedan's neuro-plexus, he jerked the cell door shut and slid the wave-pencil into its slot beside the lock.

The bolt clicked home. A fierce excitement flared within Jarl. Heart pounding, heedless of the fatigue and pain that racked him, he spun about and ran, half-reeling, down the hall.

He wondered how much time he had.

Or if he had any.

Wassreck and Sais.... He gripped the ray-gun tighter.

The first three doors he passed stood open.

The fourth was closed and locked.

Jarl slid the wave-pencil into the slot.

The bolt snapped back. Shoving open the door, he strained his eyes, searching the darkness of the room.

A thick, familiar voice snarled sleepily from a bunk.

"Ungo—!"

The great, horny shoulders heaved up. The misshapen head lurched into view. "Jarl—!" It was a half gasp, half sob. "Jarl, I thought they'd done for you—that you'd gone under—!"

Jarl reeled against the Jovian, clutching the mighty arm. "Quiet! They'll be after us any second!"

He could feel Ungo's muscles swell. "Let them—!"

Jarl laughed in spite of his tension, his pain. "Not yet, Ungo. Not till the job is done!" He pivoted. "Come on!"

The Jovian's head sank down between the bulging shoulders. His eyes gleamed. "The tube again—the way we came—?"

Jarl paused at the door. "No." He peered up and down the corridor.

"Then what—?"

"The commissioner's carrier. It's still in the court outside. We'll grab it as soon as I get back." Jarl started forward.

Ungo caught his wrist. "Jarl...."

"What—?"

"There may be something you don't know...."

Jarl came around sharply. "Speak up! Time's short!" Once more, the tension was climbing in him.

Ungo fumbled: "The guards—they talked a little. They say the reason rey Gundre went all-out on this raid was for a weapon, more than Wassreck."

Jarl felt the cords along his neck draw tighter. "A weapon—?"

"Some new thing Wassreck worked out. A beam that focuses energy drawn from cosmic dust." The Jovian's voice sank lower. His head thrust forward. "Jarl, they claim it'll blast a ship right out of space, at almost any range. They've got it geared and mounted now."

Jarl braced himself against the door. It dawned on him that his palm was slick with sweat against the ray-gun's butt. The little things came back to him—the tastes, the smells, the sounds. Again he peered up and down the empty hall.

A weapon that focussed the power that lay in cosmic dust—? Even to talk of it was sheer madness!

Yet Wassreck had made madness come to life so many times....

Involuntarily, Jarl Corvett shivered.

"If it's true, they'll blast us down before we even get the carrier to our ship," said Ungo. He scrubbed his scaly hand along his hip. "We wouldn't have a chance...."

Jarl bit down hard. With savage effort, he forced himself to think; to shake off the bleak despair that kept rising in him, ever higher. "What chance could we have if we went back through the tube, the air-vent?"

"We could maybe hide...."

"On Vesta—?" Jarl laughed aloud. "They'd find us as easily as in our cells!" He broke off. The laughter went out of him, replaced by an urgency even more feverish than that which had gone before. "No, Ungo! It means we've got to run! We'd have to even if we could find a place to hide!"

"But why, Jarl—?" The big Jovian scowled and fumbled.

"A weapon like that, and you ask why?" Jarl cursed in harsh, bitter syllables. "What about the others—the outlaw worlds? What will it mean when the Federation fleet sweeps down on H'sana?—on Ceresta?"

It was Ungo's turn to curse. Jarl shoved the wave-pencil into his hand. "Here! Break out the men! And hurry!"

"But you—"

Jarl laughed. Of a sudden, once again, recklessness was boiling in him. "We came here on a mission!"

"Not the woman—!"

"She'll still make rey Gundre hold his fire! She'll still buy Wassreck free!"

Ungo twisted. His bulk loomed rock-rigid, bigger than ever. "You can't. Jarl! I won't let you! You are sick—crazy—"

The fire of recklessness in Jarl glowed brighter. "Tell me that tomorrow, Ungo!" he clipped through clenched teeth. "You may convince me—after the commissioner's ordered his men to shoot us down with that hell-cat aboard!"

Ungo's breath came faster. "Then let me go, Jarl! Let me get her—!"

Jarl brought the ray-gun up, stone-steady. "We may both die on Vesta, Ungo. That's enough for me to have resting on my conscience."

"But Jarl—"

"I'll shoot if I have to, Ungo."

Their eyes locked, and for a long moment they stood statue-like, unmoving. Then, half-sullenly, the Jovian stepped aside. "I'll be waiting, Jarl. Whatever happens, I'll be waiting."

Jarl did not answer. Of a sudden there were no words for him to say to Ungo. Ray-gun in hand, he ran down the hall, picking his way through the maze of ramps and corridors.

He thought: It would have been better if Wassreck had let me die on Horla.

Then, at last, he reached Ylana's room. It came to him as a shock when there was no guard.

Silently, he opened the door; stepped swiftly in, gun up and ready.

The bed, the room, were empty.

In a sort of frenzy, he ran through the rest of the suite; jerked open the neutron-bath and closets.

But the girl was gone.

He spun about, for a wild moment ready to race on through the rambling building, searching further.

But that was madness, and in his heart he knew it. Not even a clue as to Ylana's whereabouts had been left behind. He might hunt for hours to no avail.

And time was running short ... the seconds ticking by.

Jarl sagged back numbly. The fire went out of him. A dinning echo drummed within his brain. I've failed ... I've failed ... I've failed....

Wassreck had gone through Horla's holocaust for nothing. Sais would weep and turn away.

As for Ceresta.

But there was still Ungo to think of ... Ungo, and the five dauntless, swaggering raider crewmen who'd come here with him. He owed it to them at least to try to get away.

Leaden-footed, he stumbled back through the maze of halls and ramps again.

Then he was back in the corridor of the cells. Ungo lumbered up beside him, eyes alight with a lust for battle. "Jarl! We knocked us off a guard station—!"

The five crewmen crowded around—grinning wolfishly, displaying weapons.

Jarl said dully, "Ungo, she was gone."

The Jovian shrugged his massive shoulders. "It goes that way sometimes." And then: "We can't wait, Jarl. The far sky's getting grey already."

"All right."

"We've found a gate to the court...."

"Let's go, then." Woodenly, Jarl walked with them to the heavy door and peered through a crevice into the courtyard.

The personal carrier of rey Gundre, high commissioner of all the asteroids, rose stark and sleek, a shining silver lance against the darkness of the sky. Blue-uniformed Federation guards patrolled in pairs or stood their posts around it, weapons dully gleaming.

The sight of the ship, the fighters, somehow lifted Jarl. Of a sudden he knew that now, of all times, he needed a foe that he could see and strike.

He clipped curt orders: "We'll come out fast and trust to shock to get us through. The first man aboard grabs the controls. The last racks shut the hatch. Blast as soon as the bell rings!"

The raiders drew close, weapons ready. Jarl cut through the bolt on the door.

"Now?" whispered Ungo.

"Now!"

Ungo's bulk struck the gate with a splintering crash. The raiders charged for the ship like ravening zanths that race to reach their prey.

Knife ready, ray-gun ablaze, Jarl Corvett leaped forward in his crewmen's van.

Guards spun about. Desperately, the nearest tried to form to meet the rush.

Jarl drove the knife deep into a Pervod's breast; blasted a dau back with his ray-gun's full charge. The fierce joy of conflict leaped in him. As from afar, he heard the shouts of his men as they lunged into the fray.

The guards' ranks wavered.

But now those from beyond the carrier were rushing to their aid. Steel clashed on steel. A great bulbous-bodied Thorian hurtled down on Jarl. Its tentacles wrapped round him, crushing him.

Savagely, he slashed at the leathery body; blasted with the ray-gun, straight into the repulsive face.

The Thorian's tentacles fell away. Jarl glimpsed Big Ungo, smashed down a dau with a blow of his one mighty arm. There was a smell of blood and burnt flesh; wild screams of rage and fear and anguish.

"To the ship—!" Jarl shouted. He hacked his way up the blood-slippery ramp; clutched Ungo's belt and half-dragged the Jovian aboard.

The last of the raiders scrambled in behind them. The hatch clanged shut. The ready bell leaped to jangling life.

There was a sudden roar of auxiliary gravicomps. The gyro-indicators jiggled and swayed in their mountings. Men lurched awkwardly, caught momentarily off balance in the crushing force of too-fast acceleration.

Then stability returned. The carrier speared upward, out from Vesta, into the spark-spangled, glittering murk of the boundless astroidal night.

Jarl turned, seeking out the crewmen, and a sudden sickness gripped him. There were only three now: three and Big Ungo.

But the dead were dead, and they had gone as raiders go. Bleakly, he made his way to the viziscreen and turned it on. Spinning the dials, he drew a cross on the specific black emptiness where his ship had been scheduled to pick them up. His fingers shook a little, and his earlier, darker mood came back to nag him. We're overdue, a day behind already. What if they've given us up and gone? What if a fleet patrol has flushed them out?

Grimly, he calculated the carrier's chances of making Ceres on her own ... such slim, slim chances....

Only then, as he manipulated the dials, a great, shark-like bulk loomed on the viziscreen. At his elbow, Ungo thrust out a quivering talon and cried, "It's her, Jarl! The Ghost! She's still waiting!"

Stiff-fingered, Jarl adjusted the focus. The familiar outlines of the raider ship sharpened. Silent, space-drive off, she drifted shadow-like through the asteroids like some strange, cylindrical metal world.

Jarl let out his breath, all at once acutely conscious of the strain that frayed at him. He was suddenly tottering weak, his belly sick and twisting.

Still beside him, Ungo studied him with worried eyes. "Look, Jarl: You're done. Lay down before you fall down."

Jarl braced his arm against the cabinet of the viziscreen. "How can I rest?" he mumbled, and knew himself that he was mumbling. "Even if we make it, what happens to the raider fleet—and to Ceresta? This new weapon...."

"Can you help more if you're dead?" the Jovian badgered. "Will things be better if you fall over?" He gripped Jarl's arm. "Come on! I'm putting you to bed, whether you want to go or not!"

Numbly, Jarl let himself be led into the commissioner's own tiny private cabin. Wordless, he sagged onto the bunk.

Ungo backed out again and closed the door.

Flat on his back in the pulsing stillness, Jarl closed his eyes.

But sleep would not come. His brain was a screen, alive with a vivid, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of form and color. Again and again, his mind flicked back to Sais and Wassreck ... to the raider fleet, the wild rovers and fighting men he knew so well ... to Ceresta's teeming streets, and the cold, bleak beauty of the hills and plains of Pallas.

And to Ylana.

Shifting, he opened his eyes and stared up at the dully gleaming ceiling.

Where had the girl gone? Why had she not been in her room?

Above all, what strange lust had led her to flay him as she had, before the highest officers of her father's fleet?

Jarl frowned and rubbed his aching forehead. The girl's willingness to bring down upon herself the shame of beating a shackled prisoner was a hard thing to explain.

Could it be that she indeed had alien blood—a strain from some sadistic barbarian breed? Narrow-eyed, he tried to recall her face more clearly ... the shadow that hung over her slim blonde loveliness. Or—he frowned again—perhaps that shadow truly hid a secret—the secret of a twisted mind set in beauty's body, irrevocably warping over into madness.

He moved to a more comfortable position, still staring up at the blank inscrutability of the metal ceiling. A play of light and shadow caught his eye. Idly, he followed its shiftings—first slow, then suddenly abrupt, then slow again.

Little by little, an uneasiness crept over him. New tension began to crawl in his midriff.

He loosened his belt and pulled the wrinkles from his tunic; moved from side to side.

But the uneasiness grew. He could not make it go away.

Biting his lip, he lay back, still searching for the cause.

Overhead, the shadows on the ceiling slowly began to shift again.

It came to him, then: He was lying motionless, allegedly alone in this cramped room—yet the shadows were moving!

There could be only one answer: Someone else shared these quarters with him.

The hair on the back of his neck crawled. Grimly, he wondered what the odds on his life would be if it turned out that some Pervod guard had been trapped here when the carrier took off.

Twisting in the bed, he let his hand fall across the haft of his knife.

The shadows overhead flexed a fraction.

Ever so slowly, ever so carefully, he turned his head, looking sidewise down at the floor.

A heel was drawing out of sight beneath the bunk.

Jarl gripped the knife. Silently, he twisted still further, till he was in position to strike.

Only then did he speak—coldly, with all the menace he could muster: "Come out—or I'll kill you!"

The whisper of a quick-drawn breath broke through the stillness, then died again in utter silence.

Jarl poised; drew back his knife. "All right, then, curse you—!"

Clothing rustled. A voice choked, "Wait, Jarl Corvett—! I'm coming...."

A strangely familiar voice....

Again there was the rustling. A head moved into view from beneath the bunk, already turning ... a woman's head, crowned with a nimbus of golden hair.

It was Ylana.

CHAPTER IV

A dragging eternity of silence echoed in the tiny cabin. Jarl's knife-hand fell. He groped for words that would not come.

Coolly, the girl slid out from under the bunk and, supplely graceful, rose to her feet. Ignoring Jarl, she straightened the sleekly-styled blue Federation tunic that accented rather than concealed the smooth curves of her slim young body. When she looked up, her grey eyes were mocking, half-disdainful. "What, raider? Have you never seen a woman, that you must stare so at me?"

"You—? A woman?" Jarl spat. "Your own sex would disown you! You're more mad ban than human!" He clenched his fist. "By H'sana's virgins. I should kill you!"

Ylana tossed her head—uncringing, defiant. The golden hair rippled. "Is that your raider's way, then? To kill the one who gives you life?"

"Who gives me life—?" Jarl cursed. He touched his lacerated face. "You've given me scars only!"

"Is your beauty such that wounds will mar it?" The girl's lips twisted scornfully. "I thought you'd find my skrii worth a few cuts, a little pain, if it would buy you back your freedom."

"The skrii—? The knife?" Jarl choked. "You mean—it was you who gave it, not the Malya—?"

"Who else?" she shrugged, and her contempt bit like the telonium blade's own razor edge. "Did you think I'd shame myself, beating a prisoner before my father's men, without reason?"

Jarl rocked. "But why—?"

Once more, Ylana's slim shoulders lifted. She smoothed her hair, with elaborate deliberation. "You were too closely guarded for me to reach you in your cell. But it came to me that if I made a show of hate, I could trick my father into bringing you to the great hall so I could confront you before all, at the banquet. The beating—it was the only way I could devise to pass the skrii on to you."

Jarl studied her. But her eyes were clear, her smooth face guileless. The shadow of a smile played about her mouth.

He frowned and gestured helplessly. "Does not even a woman need some reason....?"

"I had a reason," she said, and of a sudden she was no longer smiling. "I had so great a reason...."

Abruptly, half-turning, she broke off. Her eyes left Jarl's, and he saw that her hands had tightened to white-knuckled fists. Her breasts rose and fell too fast beneath the tunic.

He waited, not speaking.

Still looking away, her voice the barest whisper, she said, "I learned the truth at last, Jarl Corvett...."

"The truth—?"

"About freedom, and the Federation as a partnership of plunder. About my father, and that renegade chitza Wassreck." Her voice broke. Her eyes came back; met Jarl's. "Raider, how can I tell you? Wassreck has betrayed you!"

"Betrayed me—?" Jarl went rigid. In two quick steps he was beside her—gripping her chin; staring down into her eyes. "Not Wassreck—!"

"Yes, Wassreck!" Her words came tumbling forth in a rush, raw and defiant. "He was not captured, Jarl Corvett! He surrendered!"

"You lie!"

"No! Of his own free will, he sent a secret message to my father! He had a new weapon, he said—a projector that would break your raiders' power forever. He offered to give it to the Federation, if in exchange they'd lift the brand of outlaw from him and award him a post of proper honor."

New fury gripped Jarl Corvett. "You lie!" he lashed again. "You lie in your teeth, you she-quirst! This is some sneaking scheme, a filthy trick to match the one you played back there in the banquet hall—"

"No, no...." The girl's voice choked with pain. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "My jaw—you'll break it—"

Jarl let go her chin.

White patches from his gripping fingers marked her face. For an instant, shame flooded through him. Yet, somehow, in the tension of the moment, it only added to his fury. Savagely, he turned away and paced the cabin. "Curse you, Ylana!"

She looked away. The grey eyes were dull, her face deep-shadowed. "I know, Jarl Corvett. You still hate me. You wonder why I should do this thing—give you my skrii, tell you all I've told, hide here on my father's carrier so that you would take me with you...." Her voice broke. The tears coursed faster. "All my life, my father's talked of duty. But now, with this new weapon in his grasp, he would keep it secret till he can sweep the asteroids clean for the wealth that's waiting to be seized. He talks of perquisites of office, claims it as his due for his years of service...."

Chill, narrow-eyed, Jarl weighed her words. "So, now, you'd turn against him?"

She hid her face. Her voice came muffled. "It was more than I could stand, Jarl Corvett—that you should die for loyalty, while my father loots the Belt, and Wassreck basks in honor. Now,"—she raised her head, red lips aquiver—"now, at least, I've warned you. You can flee somewhere—perhaps to the dark worlds beyond Pluto...."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps—? What else is there for you to do?"

Tight-jawed, Jarl slapped his hands against his hips. "I can still go on to the outlaw worlds. My ship can still ramp at Ceresta."

"Ceresta—?" The eager light faded from her face. She drew back, staring. "But why, Jarl Corvett? Don't you understand what I've just told you? The raider worlds are doomed!"

"So you claim," Jarl nodded. "But Wassreck proved himself to me at Horla. Do you think I'd forsake him now, on your word only?" Grimly, again, he paced the tiny cabin. "No, golden Ylana! You—you're still rey Gundre's daughter!"

Her hand came to her throat. "You mean—?"

Rock-faced, he towered over her, fighting down all impulses to gentleness, to mercy. "I mean that whether you tell the truth or not, your father's still the high commissioner. How can I trust you?"

He could see the pulse beat in her temple. "Then ... it means nothing to you that I hid aboard the carrier, here, to warn you? I pledged my life—"

He nodded curtly. "Yes. You pledged your life. And now it's forfeit." Turning on his heel, he strode to the door and flung it open. "Ungo!"

The Jovian turned from the viziscreen. "What, Jarl?"

"Come here! We've got our hostage!"

"Our hostage—?" Big Ungo lumbered to the cabin's door, then stopped short, gaping. "Jarl—! The woman—!"

"Yes, the woman! Ylana, the commissioner's own daughter!" Even as he said it, there was a sickness in Jarl Corvett. But he put false triumph into his voice to cover the things he felt. "She came of her own free will, old comrade, with a fool's wild tale that Wassreck had betrayed us!"

The girl stood rigid. Her mouth, her throat, were working. Then furiously, she stumbled forward and ran to him. Her fists beat a drum-roll against his chest. "You chitza—!" Sobbing, she broke off; turned to face Ungo and the staring crewmen. "A fool's tale, he calls it! He'd go on to Ceresta!" She choked. "Must all of us die for this one madman? I tell you, your sainted Wassreck has surrendered and given the Federation his newest, most deadly weapon! I came to warn you, so that you could flee to outer space—"

Jarl caught her arm. Sharply, he twisted. "Enough, you she-quirst! Even if you believe you tell the truth, you're more the fool to think so!"

Wincing, doubled with pain, she twisted. "What do you mean?"

Jarl laughed, and the sound came out less mirth than anguish. "Did you forget that Wassreck's own daughter, Sais, is at Ceresta? Would he cut loose your father's Federation fleet, arm his deadliest foe with a new weapon, knowing that Sais and the raiders would die together?"

The girl's face paled. "No—! No, it can't be—"

"It can't be, but it is. Sais came to me there, to beg me to try to save her father!"

Ylana swayed. Her lovely face was a mirror of shock. Helpless, grey eyes tear-brimming, she twisted in mute appeal to the other raiders.

Ungo said: "It's true, woman. I was there with him."

"But it can't be...." The words came out almost a whimper.

Across the room, the viziscreen's communicator bell rang shrilly.

Jarl let the girl's arm fall. Muscles stiff, belly tight with tension, he strode to the screen and spun the dials swiftly to the cross shown on the communicator unit.

A room took form upon the screen, a bleak, bare, metal room where blue-uniformed Federation crewmen moved to and fro.

Ungo clipped: "The screen-room—! The screen-room of Gundre's own fleet flagship, down on Vesta!"

Mute, Jarl Corvett nodded; focussed.

Now a new figure appeared before the screen ... the iron-backed, handsome figure of High Commissioner rey Gundre. Deep lines etched his lean face. His hair was mussed, his tunic-collar open. But he stood erect, and his eyes were cold as Pluto's ice-things.

His voice came, harsh and savage: "You starbos! If you've laid one finger on my daughter, I swear by every god from here to Arcturus that you'll die by inches!"

A spark of quick admiration touched Jarl Corvett; and with it came flooding a feeling that was almost pity.

But he held his face cold, and twisted his lips in a mocking, mirthless smile. "Brave talk, Commissioner!" And then: "You can have her back, you know ... in exchange for Ktar Wassreck!"

rey Gundre's mouth twisted. "You chitza! You know he's gone!"

"Then get him back."

"From the slan-chambers, the Venus headquarters?" rey Gundre cursed.

"From hell, if need be!" Jarl took a quick half-step forward; stood with hands on hips, feet wide apart, in fierce, cold-eyed defiance. He let his voice ring: "The choice is yours, Commissioner! How much do you love her? Take your pick now! It's her, or Ktar Wassreck!"

The older man brought up a fist that shook with fury. His face worked in a twitching spasm. "I'll blast you, Corvett! By the gods, I'll blast you—!"

"Blast, then," Jarl shrugged. "Blast, and be damned! But remember—your daughter's with us!"

Things happened to the other's face, then ... things that were not good to see. The cheeks sagged, and the mouth went limp, and the eyes' fire dulled to coals of pain. Of a sudden rey Gundre was no longer the high commissioner, but only a shriveled husk of a man all at once grown old beyond his years.

He swayed, then turned, as if he had forgotten Jarl and the raiders. "Atak, what can I do—?" It was a plea, a supplication.

His Malya aide moved into view beside him on the screen. The dark, rough-hewn face had the set of granite. "Corvett...."

Jarl forgot his pity. Sudden needles of tension pricked at his neck. "Yes."

"Tell me, raider—have you heard of Ktar Wassreck's new projector?"

"Yes."

"And that we've already set it up—that this moment it's geared for action?"

Woodenly, Jarl nodded.

The Malya's eyes grew black as the void. "Then know another thing. Jarl Corvett! Know that we've plotted your course as you ranged off from Vesta."

Chill tendrils brushed Jarl's spine. But he held his face blank, without emotion. "And so—?"

"So you, too, have a choice to make, raider—the choice between coming back, or trying to cross the void in a short-flight carrier."

Jarl shrugged and forced the thin vestige of a smile. "A good threat, Malya. It might break me—if I believed it."

"But you do not?"

"No projector has the range to reach my ship from Vesta."

"More power lies in cosmic dust than you can dream of, raider." Atak's eyes were bleak, his dark face set in a mask of menace. "You've made your choice, Corvett! Now set your cross for your own ship—and live with the decision!"

The viziscreen went blank.

"Jarl ..." whispered Big Ungo. "Quick, Jarl, get a cross on the ship!"

The crewmen's voices were muttered echoes.

With an effort, Jarl kept his movements casual. Wordless, he spun the dials.

The Ghost's looming bulk took form, drifting through the emptiness of space.

In the stillness, Atak's voice blared through the audio unit. "Are you ready, raider? Are you watching?"

Jarl cursed him.

The Malya laughed harshly. "I press a button...."

Numb, stiff with tension, Jarl stared at the screen, hardly conscious of the crewmen crowding round him.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, before his very eyes, the Ghost began to glow.

It came slowly, at first—the faintest touch of pale phosphorescence.

But with every heartbeat, it shone brighter. In seconds the hull was weirdly agleam as with some strange, penetrating light.

Then the ship rocked wildly. He could see the plates begin to buckle.

"No—!" screamed a crewman. "No! My brother—!"

Wallowing, the Ghost flamed bright as a thes-wood torch. Proton cannon streamed blazing, aimless death. The hull began to cave, then burst asunder. Like an eidel-bomb exploding, it tore apart in great, flaring sections that blasted out through space, beyond the viziscreen's frame edges.

Slowly, the weird light faded; died. The blackness of the void closed in.

Like men paralyzed, the raiders stared unspeaking into the awful emptiness where short moments before the Ghost had drifted.

It came to Jarl Corvett that he was trembling. Numb-fingered, he reached out and snapped off the viziscreen.

The sound of the switch triggered loose the tension. At his elbow, Ylana burst into hysterical, wildly-triumphant laughter. "You see—? Will you believe me now, when I tell you what fate awaits you?"

Pivoting, Jarl slapped her across the mouth with all his might.

She crashed to the floor against the carrier's farthest wall; lay there in a crumpled, moaning heap.

The crewmen fell back a step, all eyes on Jarl. He could not read their stony faces.

"Jarl...." Ungo's voice was shaking. "Jarl, you saw it—?"

The others' words were sullen echoes.

Jarl moved away from them a fraction, till his back was against the viziscreen. He let his hand hang close to his ray-gun.

He said: "We're wasting time. Even in this carrier, we still can make Ceresta."

They stared at him, all of them—Ungo, Ylana, the three hard-eyed crewmen. Then, suddenly, a Chonya blurted, "You're mad, Jarl! What chance would we have against that projector?"

"You can forget the projector." Jarl jerked his head in the direction of Ylana. "As long as she's aboard, they won't dare use it."

"But across the void...." The raiders exchanged fearful glances.

"Would you rather die on Venus?"

Big Ungo shifted. "But Ceresta, Jarl—it's too far to go. There are other places nearer, safer."

"And the raider fleet—?" In spite of himself, Jarl's voice was bitter.

"The fleet—?"

"How long do you think the Federation will wait to strike, now that they've got this new projector?" Jarl laughed, harsh and curt. "By now, the armorers will be fitting them into every ship. Tomorrow they'll be blasting down on Ceres."

He could see new fear come alive in the others' eyes. It put iron in him.

He lashed out: "Are your own necks all that you can think of? Does it mean nothing to you that good friends will die and, with them, all freedom?—That the outlaw worlds at last will be forced to bow their necks to the yoke of the Federation?"

The others' eyes fell. The raiders looked away and shifted.

Jarl said: "That's one of the reasons why we're going to Ceresta. With rey Gundre's daughter there, the Federation fleet will hold off striking."

Big Ungo looked up, still half-sullen. "You said that was one reason. What others are there?"

A knot drew tight in Jarl Corvett's belly. "We came to Vesta to save Ktar Wassreck. Now they claim he has betrayed us."

"But what—?"

"Sais is at Ceresta." The knot drew tighter. "If it's true, if Wassreck has gone over, then we'll need her for a hostage."

Again the silence echoed.

Then, suddenly, the Chonya crewman cried, "To hell with that! You don't give a filan for Ceresta!" His voice went raw with angry passion. "We know what you want! It's Sais you're after—not as a hostage, but a woman!"

Face contorted, he clawed for his blaster.

Jarl whipped up his ray-gun—twisting, firing.

The Chonya crashed back, dead.

Hate seethed in Jarl Corvett, a boiling, red-hazed murder-fury. He shook in a spasm of unbridled passion.

"You chitzas!" he shouted. "I'll kill you all—even you, Ungo—"

The great Jovian's face twitched. But there was no fear in it. Bleakly, he lumbered forward, towering. His deep voice rasped: "Kill ahead, Jarl. Any time you want to." His massive shoulders seemed to draw together. "I'm with you now, Jarl. I've always been. But I'll speak my mind when I think I need to—to you, or the devil!"

Jarl's tide of fury ebbed and died. The ray-gun dropped to his side, and of a sudden he was shaking. "Ungo...."

"I know, Jarl. It doesn't matter." Ungo's taloned hand was like a steadying pillar. "Go ahead. Give your orders."

Numb, sick, Jarl Corvett slowly straightened, and breathed deep.

He said, "Our course is still Ceresta!"

CHAPTER V

Ceresta: Port Royal of the void; sprawling, anarchical capitol city of the outlaw worlds.

Here were burrows of Rhea's spider men, and Pervod cones, and Fantay spires. Hive-like Mercurian domes rose amid the flat-roofed dwellings of the llorin. Throbbing Transmi drums beat out their savage rhythm, echoing over voices that spoke in Pluto's clacking accents and the reptilian sibilances of creatures from the ammonia-and-methyl swamplands of Saturn and the Rings. There was the acrid smell of Rogek gas and rocket fuel—and the stink of the bulbous, grub-like Mah'ham that fed on their own dead. Here a rover could dine on t'krai of Callisto, or haggle over the price of one of Neptune's fire-jewels ... or have his brains beaten out with a genuine Torod mace.

For this was a warrior's city, haven of the wild, blood-lusting raiders who made the asteroid belt their home. Fighting men from half-a-hundred satellites and planetoids and planets, they gathered here by their own choice, drawn together in one vast cutthroat brotherhood of booty. Old names, old fames, were left unmentioned. The hulls of the battered ships that ramped in the vastness of the sprawling port bore no Federation registration symbols.

Now, in the shadowy dusk that characterized this strange, warped world of Ceres, the carrier of High Commissioner rey Gundre came limping down.

Jarl Corvett brought the craft in himself.

He waited till the shadows verged on darkness, enough to hide the carrier's insignia; then picked a spot far off from the tower, out where the port bordered on the old native quarter, and let the ship drop down her gravicomps dead like another, blacker shadow.

The carrier rocked in to a silent landing. Rising from the control seat, he strode to the hatch.

But Big Ungo was already there before him—blaster on hip, massive shoulders straining at the fabric of an appropriated Federation tunic. "Jarl, you can't go alone...."

Jarl Corvett smiled thinly. "I've got to, Ungo."

"But there may be trouble...." The Jovian brought up his one hand in an angry gesture.

"I know. That's why you can't go. I need you here on board more than I do with me." Jarl dropped his voice; jerked his head towards the cabin where Ylana lay. "Stay with her, Ungo. We can't afford to lose her."

"The men—"

"Would you chance it? Would you trust that much to them?"

For a moment their eyes clashed. But the questions held their own bleak answers. Muttering, half-sullen, the big Jovian moved aside.

Jarl said: "I'll be back, Ungo." Silently, he dropped out the hatch to the ground and strode towards the dim lights that marked the ancient, scabrous buildings which fringed the port.

But every step was a coal for the dull fire of tension that burned within him. Would he really be back? Would he ever see the carrier again, or Ungo?

Or Ylana....

He wondered.

The native quarter closed in about him, heavy with the stench of age and rotting garbage. Vocorn pipes wailed, thin and minor, and strange eyes stared at him, luminous in the descending night. Once he stepped shuddering into the protoplasmic slime of some primitive life-form as it writhed its way across the mud-choked cobbles; once, through a doorway, he glimpsed a snake-woman's sinuous dancing in the light of flaring thes-wood torches.

But he hurried on, still wrapped and trapped in his own dark thoughts.

Again and again, in spite of him, his mind flashed back to Wassreck ... Ktar Wassreck, tortured genius, who'd come for him at Horla.

Could betrayal find a haven in such a man?

Jarl Corvett cursed aloud. It was beyond the believing.

Yet if it were true....

A chill shook Jarl. Where did loyalty lie, in man or duty?

Especially if that duty were only to a dream, the way of the raider....

He could find no answer. Savagely, he kicked a whimpering bok from his path and pushed on through the darkness.

And Sais ... what of her? Would he find her waiting, or vanished? What would she say? How could he tell her?

Tight-jawed, head down, he hurried on the faster.

Then, at last, he was striding out into the Place of the Raiders ... crossing the open court to his own quarters.

He tried the door.

It was locked. Angrily, he beat on it with a heavy fist.

A rustle of sound came from within. The door opened a crack.

Belligerently, Jarl shoved inside.

A hard object gouged his back.

By sheer reflex, he tried to leap aside, to whirl.

But rough hands seized him. A powerful arm jerked back his head, the wrist-bone jammed so hard against his throat that he choked and gasped for breath, his struggles unavailing. Close to his ear, a rough voice rasped, "Give up, you zanat, or I'll break your neck!"

Already the blackness was swimming with sparks and stars. Reeling, Jarl called a halt to battle.

"That's better!" the voice rasped. And then: "All right! We've got him! Let's have some light!"

The inner door opened. A yellow glare flooded the entryway. Staggering, arms locked behind him, Jarl was dragged into the room beyond.

Blinking, he stared into familiar faces ... the cold, hard-bitten faces of the chieftains of the raider fleet—Toran the Malya ... the mongrel, Tas Karrel ... Bor Legat of Mercury ... half-a-dozen others.

And there was another with them, not a warrior ... one whose dark, proud, lovely face was pale beneath its color.

Jarl choked, "Sais—! What have they done to you—?"

The woman who was Ktar Wassreck's daughter pulled together the torn bodice of her kirtle. A sudden flush replaced her pallor. "Ask them, Jarl." The fine, dark eyes with which she swept the raider chiefs were bitter, scornful.

Jarl stood very still. Cold-eyed, seething, he looked from one captain to another.

He said tightly: "You know this woman. You know she's under my protection. Who among you saw fit to lay hands on her, in my own quarters?" And then, with special, deadly emphasis: "Who dared to do it?"

But the chieftains' eyes threw back his fury. Their faces stayed hard, bleak, impassive.

"You starbos!" Jarl lashed. "Are you afraid to talk? Have you left your tongues on Pluto?"

The chiefs exchanged glances. Then, almost idly, Bor Legat moved forward—Bor Legat of Mercury, Bor Legat the ruthless. His lean body's shell-plates clacked in the stillness like tiny castinets. The basilisk eyes were like diamonds.

"Corvett," he said gently, "we're not afraid. Maybe this will convince you."

One arm appendage whipped up. The splayed, tentacular digits stung Jarl's face like flicking lashes.

Jarl rocked in a red haze of fury. "Bor Legat—"

"I know. You'll kill me." Chill, casual, the Mercurian crossed to the chart table and slouched down on one radial hip. The tentacular digits wrapped around the proton grenade that served as a chart-weight and swung it idly to and fro.

To Jarl, the ticking seconds were like eons. The tension rising in the room was almost a living thing. He waited, not speaking.

At last Bor Legat raised the basilisk eyes to him. "Word travels fast, Corvett. We know you've got rey Gundre's daughter."

Jarl stared. "That's why you're here—?"

The Mercurian shrugged. "What else? And what better place to trap you than your own quarters?"

The other raiders nodded.

"And Sais—?" Jarl queried tightly.

"We needed her, to force your hand."

Jarl shot a quick glance at the woman. She stood as before, straight and proud, one hand to her bodice. Her dark eyes spoke unreadable volumes.

Bor Legat laughed softly. "She wants your help, Corvett. I hope that she'll get it."

Jarl turned on him, voice raw and scalding. "Quit talking in riddles! What is it you're after?"

"You're not that stupid, Corvett." The Mercurian swung the proton grenade a fraction faster. "We want the girl, of course; Gundre's daughter, Ylana."

"Why?"

"To drive a bargain." The faintest hint of urgency crept into Legat's tone. "We know why you stole her. You're out to save Wassreck."

"And you—?" Jarl put scorn into his voice.

"Death comes to all raiders. Why should a traitor's tale be different?" The Mercurian lowered the grenade and leaned forward. "You can have it straight, Corvett: rey Gundre's made us an offer. If we give him you and Ylana, he'll spare Ceresta."

"And you believe him—?" Jarl laughed harshly. "No wonder you came here! You're mad as a ban, Legat! How long do you think he'd hold to his promise?"

"Long enough," the Mercurian clipped curtly. He sat back once more. Again, idly, he swung the grenade like a deadly oval pendulum.

Jarl said: "Maybe there are some things you don't know—about Wassreck; about his new projector—"

"Yes; we've heard about it." A veil of craft and malice drew over the basilisk eyes. "You see, we've got it, too, Corvett."

Jarl started. "You've got it—?"

"You heard me." Bor Legat's smile grew to a ghoulish grin, leering and macabre. "Sais gave it to us."

"Sais—!" Jarl swung sharply.

The woman's ripe lips quivered. Once more her color deepened. "Yes, Jarl. I knew the secret. I gave it to them."

For a long, taut moment, Jarl studied her. But as before, the dark eyes were unfathomable.

He turned back to Bor Legat. "So what are your plans?"

"You can guess them, can't you?" the Mercurian chuckled. "All we need is time. You'll buy that for us—you, and the girl, Ylana. Then, when the Federation fleet strikes through the Belt to blast us, we'll have a surprise of our own all ready and waiting for them."

"I see." Jarl nodded slowly, but his mind was racing. Then, pouring savage scorn into his voice, he lashed out at the raiders: "Are you utter fools, you chitzas? Do you rate rey Gundre as a moonstruck idiot?" He laughed, harsh and curt. "He'll strike, all right; but not the way you expect, nor by the path you hope for! He'll know from the start that you plan to trap him! His ships will break through before you have the chance to trap them—"

He slashed on, in that vein; and as he talked he could see doubt flare in the chieftains' eyes. Tas Karrel's glance wavered. Toran the Malya frowned and shifted.

But Bor Legat the ruthless did not shift or waver.

"We'll chance that," he clipped; and in spite of their doubts, the others nodded.

Jarl's jaw set hard. "Play it that way, then, if you can." He jerked free of the hands that held him; hooked his thumbs in his belt in a gesture of cold defiance. "If you can...."

Bor Legat's arm came down. The proton bomb swung loose at his side as he leaned forward. "If—?" he queried, too gently.

Jarl said: "You need two prisoners to keep your traitor bargain. You've only got one."

"You mean, you won't give up the girl." The Mercurian was almost purring. "We counted on your being stubborn, Corvett. That's why we held your lovely Sais a prisoner. With her to help, I think we can convince you."

With an effort, Jarl held his face immobile. He did not speak.

Bor Legat said: "Torture means little to a man like you, Jarl Corvett. I doubt that it would break you. But if you knew your silence would doom this woman...."

Sais cried: "No, Jarl—!" Before they could stop her, she was running to him. She threw her arms around him. "Jarl, they're mad with fear of my father's weapon! If you give rey Gundre's daughter to them, they will gamble the fate of the outlaw worlds on their bargain with him—!"

For a moment Jarl held her to him. Her warmth, the softness of her body, brought new strain, new tension. The fragrance of her dark hair stabbed like a knife-blade.

Slouched on the chart table, Bor Legat smiled and swung the proton grenade. "Well, Corvett?"

Again Jarl looked from one raider to another. But their hard faces showed no trace of mercy, no hint of indecision.

Bleakly, he turned back to Bor Legat.

The Mercurian set the proton bomb down on the table with a thud. A grim finality was in the gesture.

"We've got three Earth days, Corvett," he said in a flat, hard voice. "Three days to turn you over to rey Gundre." And then: "It could seem three thousand years to your lovely Sais, if you stay stubborn."

Once more, the seconds dragged like eons. Again Jarl looked to the raider chiefs, the burly crewmen.

A thought moiled in the far reaches of his brain: If I could only snatch a weapon....

But even as it came, it died again. What good could any weapon do against so many? Even if he killed Bor Legat, there'd be the others.

The Mercurian said: "We're wasting time, Corvett. Give us Ylana—or we'll get to work on your own woman."

Sais choked, "Jarl, stand firm—! Let them have me; it doesn't matter...."

Her voice broke. Jarl held her tighter. Bitterly, he thought of Wassreck, her father, and of Horla.

What was loyalty now, when it made a man try to choose between Sais and the thin-drawn chance that he might somehow save Ceresta?

Of a sudden he felt as if he were being pulled apart by the conflicting claims of love and loyalty, torn asunder under the impact of a dozen different kinds of duty.

The proton bomb on the table would rend a man less.

The proton bomb....

Bor Legat straightened. He snapped to the crewmen, "Take the woman!"

Never had the basilisk eyes held more deadly malice.

"Jarl ..." whispered Sais. But her voice held only proud farewell; no tears nor fears, no piteous entreaty.

A raider gripped her shoulder.

Jarl said, "Wait...."

He spoke to Bor Legat, but his eyes were on the grenade that stood beside the Mercurian on the table. A tremor of chill fascination touched him as he stared at the safety pin, the firing lever.

"A change of heart—?" Legat smiled his ghoulish smile. "For a moment, there, I thought you'd let us have the woman."

"No, Bor," Jarl Corvett said tightly, and in that moment a raider's own wild recklessness was singing in him. "I've other plans for Sais and you. If they work, she'll live, and so will I—and you, you scum, there'll come a day when you'll have your chance to die by inches!"

"What—?" Bor Legat came erect, as if he could not believe the words he heard.

Sais' eyes went wide. She tried to push back from Jarl.

A raider crewman reached for his arm.

"You heard me right," Jarl Corvett said. He let his shoulders slump and made as if to turn away. Of a sudden his muscles were tense to aching.

The crewman stretched to clutch him.

But Jarl moved faster. Catching Sais about the waist, he flung her bodily against the raider. Then, whirling, he lunged for the proton bomb on the table.

Bor Legat snatched for his pistol.

But Jarl smashed an elbow into his middle.

The Mercurian retched and reeled. Before he could recover, Jarl drove past him—clawing the grenade up from the table, jerking out the pin.

"Corvett, no—!" shrieked a raider. Another whipped up a ray-gun.

Jarl spun about. His hand ached with the strain of holding down the spring of the bomb's curved firing lever.

But fierce exhilaration surged within him. With a shout he swung the grenade high above his head, where all could see. "Look, chitzas!"

One and all, they froze in their tracks, eyes suddenly aglisten with the glassy sheen of fear. Even Sais' dark, lovely face was all at once a mirror of panic.

"Shoot, curse you!" Jarl cried, and his voice rang with fierce triumph, with exultation. "Shoot and be damned! Because if I die, I'll take you with me!"

Bor Legat choked, "Corvett—!"

Jarl whirled upon him. "Yes, you starbo! Take me! But remember—if I let go this firing lever, the spring completes the contact for me!"

"No—!" croaked Legat, and his shell-like body plates were clacking. "No, Corvett! That thing would blast us all to atoms!"

Jarl said, "That's better." Coolly, he lowered the bomb and held it cradled between his hands. "Sais...."

"Yes, Jarl...." Quickly, supplely, she moved forward.

"We're leaving now," Jarl clipped. And then, to the chieftains: "If you want to live, don't try to follow."

Hate hammered at him, a living thing—the hate of the wolf-pack that sees its prey escaping. Fists clenched, and gun-hands quivered, and eyes drew to murderous, icy diamonds.

Jarl laughed aloud—scornful, contemptuous. The woman at his side, looking neither to right nor left, he strode to and through the door; closed it behind him.

Sais' taut whisper cut through the darkness: "Jarl, they'll come after us! They'll shoot at a distance—"

Wordless, heart racing, he pushed her forward faster. She stumbled across the final threshold, out into the night and the Place of the Raiders.

Jarl threw a quick glance back. Already, behind them, the door to the inner room was opening.

Cursing, he lobbed the proton grenade back over his shoulder; then bolted after Sais.

The night exploded into crashing chaos. A wall of force smashed Jarl to the cobbles. Screams and shrieks slashed through dust and smoke and falling debris.

But he was outside, the wall between him and the blast. Scrambling to his feet, he dragged Sais up.

Together, they raced for the blackness of the native quarter....

CHAPTER VI

They ran through the murk of Ceres' night till their lungs caught fire, and their eyes rolled up, and their quaking legs could no longer hold them.

Then, at last, sobbing and panting, they fell in a heap in a rubble-strewn alley, heedless of time or place or peril.

But that passed, too. Slowly, the pain and weariness ebbed. Jarl's strength flowed back. Once more, he was acutely conscious of the filth, the smells, the slithering vermin. Somewhere afar, the vocorn pipes still were wailing.

Sais twisted against him, her ripe body smooth as rippling velvet. When he rested his palm on her hip, she gripped it fiercely in the darkness. Her hand was hot; he could feel the movement of her quickened breathing.

The muscles in Jarl's belly drew tight. All at once—even here, even now—he could think of nothing save this woman. His fingers trembled as he smoothed her dark hair; touched her eyes, her lips.

She moved closer, till the curve of her cheek lay against his shoulder. The pressure of her body was a silent pledge, an invitation.

Sais.... She was all passion, all woman.

And all his.

Or was she?

The question came without his bidding. In spite of it. Yet once it had come, it would not go away.

He shifted. But it did no good. The spell of her was upon him, melded of her woman's flesh and fragrance.

She pressed closer.

Rigid, he fought a silent battle ... and prayed that he would lose it.

Why did he hang back? How could he doubt her?

But in his heart he knew the answer to all his questions.

This woman whose touch made his heart beat faster was more than merely woman. She was Sais herself, Ktar Wassreck's daughter.

Once, that had been a bond between them.

Now it rose like a cold stone wall, setting them apart. Because now, in spite of himself, in spite of loyalty or duty, he doubted Wassreck....

A Pervod's drunken laugh drifted to Jarl, dull and muffled. The faint, alluring scent of mafrak reached his nostrils.

Sais' fingers brushed his throat.

He could stand the strain no longer. Twisting, he pushed her back. "Sais...." Even in a whisper, his voice was raw and rasping.

He could feel her body stiffen. "Yes, Jarl...?"

How could he say it? What words could he find?

He blurted: "They said on Vesta that your father had ... surrendered."

For an instant her shoulders stayed tight and straining. Then, incredibly, the tension left them.

"Yes, Jarl." Her voice was the barest murmur. "They told it true. He sent a secret message to rey Gundre...."

A numbness crept through Jarl Corvett. He could hear his own heart pounding in the stillness. "But why, Sais? Why? How could he do it—?"

And her whisper came back: "You mean—you thought he had betrayed you?"

The hurt in her voice twisted at Jarl Corvett. But he threw it off; forced himself to press her further: "You ask—when for his own gain he left you here, to die with the rest of us on Ceres?"

He felt her body quiver, and it was like a knife-stab in his belly.

But when she spoke, scorn edged her words: "You'd believe that, after Horla?"

"What can I believe—?" He broke off; lashed out: "If he didn't, tell me! Why did he go? Why did he use you to bait me into a trap that almost snared me?"

A new tremor ran through Sais' smooth, perfect body. Of a sudden she reached out and once more gripped his clenched fist in the darkness. "Jarl, believe me...."

"Believe you—?"

"The trap was my fault, not his. He sent me a message that came too late. You'd gone before I found it...." She choked. "Now I must tell you all—"

"All—?"

"Yes, no matter what I promised." Sais broke off, still trembling; then hurried on. "The projector ... it was a gamble...."

Again she fumbled, halted. Jarl waited in taut silence.

She said: "It draws its power from cosmic dust."

"I know."

"But that was only half my father's secret!" Sais' voice took on a new raw edge. "Did you ever ask yourself how my father learned to utilize that power, Jarl Corvett? Did you ever wonder why it was he who mastered its principle, after the finest scientists of every planet had striven for a thousand years and failed?"

Jarl frowned in the darkness. "You mean—?"

"I mean that it was not he who solved the problem!" Sais' nails bit into his hand. Her voice lost its edge in an eager rush of words. "Jarl, the secret came from another race—from a people who voyaged across the void ... perhaps from even beyond the stars! Eons ago, they lived and died. But one of their ships had crashed on Vesta. That was why my father built his workshop there—so that he could better study what little they'd left behind them. There was a book with metal pages; he found it deep in the buried wreckage. From it, he worked out the plans for this new projector."

It made Jarl's breath quicken, that picture—the picture of Wassreck, twisted genius, digging through dead ruins in spite of a torture, pain-racked body. The endless hours, the weary years, the lightning mind and infinite patience—all were part of an old, familiar pattern.

Wassreck's pattern.

But it still was not enough to still the doubts that plagued him. With an effort, he held his voice flat and clipped, emotionless. "So ... he gave this master secret to rey Gundre....

"He doomed the outlaw worlds. He left us to die here, at Ceresta."

"No! He did not!" Bitter vehemence rang in her denial. "You fool, the projector itself was nothing! He had to break through the Federation fleet's blockade in order to reach Venus' orbit, and then Womar—"

"Womar—!" Jarl went rigid. He strained his eyes to see the woman in the darkness.

"Yes, Womar, the satellite that hides behind the mother planet!" Sais writhed upright. Again her words came fast and eager. "There was another ship, Jarl Corvett—another craft built by that same ancient master race somewhere across the void! If my father can find it, it will mean the end of the Federation! It will buy the outlaw worlds their freedom!"

"But Womar..." Choking, Jarl came up beside her. His thin-stretched mask of bleakness fell away. "Sais, it's madness!"

"Because of the primitives, you mean? Because of the Federation ban, the deserts—?" Sais laughed aloud, and there was scorn and fury in it. "Yes, Jarl Corvett, it's utter madness! That's why my father went in secret, leaving you behind to call him traitor! He wanted no other to die with him on such a hopeless quest. So he sent his message to rey Gundre, wagered his own life on the one slim, desperate chance that he could bring destruction to the Federation!"

The fears, the doubts ... they all were dying. And as they died, a gnawing sickness grew in Jarl Corvett. Of a sudden he was himself traitor, betrayer, for his very doubting.

"But why—?" he whispered. "Why did he go, Sais? What secret could be greater than the one he gave to Gundre?"

Sais laughed again, more softly. Once more, she came close to him, as if unwilling, even here, to speak of this thing above a breathless murmur. "The robots, Jarl; the robots!"

He stared. "The robots—?"

"Yes!" Now her voice shook with excitement. "Jarl, they were no idle fancy, no toys brought to being out of an old man's dreams. They were models of warriors—the great, inanimate metal warriors of that alien race from beyond the stars. He built them from plans in the books he found in the wrecked ship."

For Jarl, it was as if a curtain had suddenly been pulled aside. His mind flashed back to Vesta, to Wassreck's workshop ... back to the great hall's echoing vastness, and the towering metal monsters that, shoulder to shoulder, lined its walls.

Sais still was speaking: "He knew that the outlaw worlds were doomed, Jarl. The Federation was too strong. The projector—it was only another weapon. For victory, the raider fleet needed something more."

Jarl did not speak.

She said: "The metal warriors were to be that 'something more'. Not models, such as he constructed, but giants, monsters—huge creatures, indestructible, so mighty that they could break space-ships in their hands." The woman's voice rose; took on a richer timbre. "Think of it, Jarl Corvett! Think of an army of those awful warriors, each alone strong enough to desolate a planet! What would power like that mean to the outlaw worlds—?"

She broke off, shaking. With an oath, Jarl pulled her to him; held her.

"But he failed, Jarl...." Sais' words came dull and muffled. "He could not give them life."

"You mean—?"

"The control was a mystery he could not master. The books told nothing of its workings."

"So now he would go to Womar...."

"Yes. There was a chance, he thought, that he might find the secret there, where the other alien ship had fallen. He had a theory that the primitives themselves were decadent descendants of the master race."

"But Womar...." Jarl's voice trailed off. He thought of the tales he'd heard, the things he'd seen. Of Venus' hidden satellite and its deserts. Of the Federation ban that made it death to land there. Of the beings behind that ban, the primitives, still unconquered, with their savagery and lust for blood and darkly rumored rites.

Tremulous, close to him, Sais whispered, "He gambled his life, Jarl Corvett. In secret, in order that he would not risk yours nor mine."

In the distance, Jarl still could hear the wailing vocorn pipes; the shouts, the shrieks, the drunken laughter. A thes-wood torch was a flaring pin-point in the blackness. He rolled the acrid taste of Rogek gas about his tongue ... drank in the Mah'ham's stench.

Yes, this was Ceres, a Cerestan night, and he was here, with the warmth and softness of dark Sais pressed against him.

Yet another part of him was far away ... far, far away in time and space and circumstance, armoring his quivering belly in a surface plate of boldness as he strode out on Horla to face the agony of the flame-death.

And there was Wassreck, too, Ktar Wassreck, with his burning eyes and pain-racked body, blasting down through the holocaust to save him.

Loyalty ... it was such a feeble, tenuous thing.

Yet the bonds it forged were stronger than telonium or steel.

Again he cursed, and pushed Sais back. Catching her hand, he turned and led her, stumbling, through the darkness.