But slashing even deeper were other markings--the stylized images of the lightning that were Xaymar's symbol. "A strong man can roll the globe within its base," Kyla told Haral. She studied the markings, chose a spot. "Here is the place. Now spin it upward." New uneasiness came upon Haral. The muscles along the back of his neck felt stiff and drawn with tension. He wondered if it could be his weariness, his wound. But he could not shrug it off. He said tightly. "This smells of danger, Kyla. There's trouble here." Once more, he swept the lance's illumination beam across the room. A long smear on the floor shimmered. Haral dropped to one knee, touched it. "Look! This is wet, and not with water! It's more like the blood of the coleoptera!" A tremor ran through Kyla. "Then hurry! Quick! Spin the globe!" The blue man straightened. Narrow-eyed, uneasy, he laid the lance aside. Then, bracing himself, he put his unwounded shoulder to the globe and heaved at it with all his might. It moved a bare inch; then another. He strained again. Slowly, the great sphere turned. The edge of a slot cut in its under side came into view--a crack that widened as the globe rolled within the base, till an oblong orifice lay exposed like a tunnel mouth leading down into the footing. Haral started to step back. But, of a sudden, a faint sound came--the muffled ring of metal against stone. Haral lunged for the light-lance. But a harsh, unfamiliar voice slashed in upon him--a voice from atop the high, flat ledge that lined the walls: "Drop it, _chitza_! Drop the light-lance!" From a different angle, another voice rang: "Quick! Drop it!" A third: "Just one false move...." An icy knot gathered in the pit of Haral's stomach. He let the lance fall. * * * * * To his right, a _Pervod_ rose into view upon the ledge, ray-gun murderously ready. A squat, tentacled Thorian appeared to his left. Sounds told him others were getting up behind him. Desperately, he looked to Kyla. But she stood rigid, fists clenched at her sides. The ray-pistol he'd given her had disappeared. He turned back to the _Pervod_. "Well, finish it!" he cried. "You're here to burn us down. Get it done and be on your way!" But the _Pervod_ didn't answer. Instead, there was laughter ... ghoulish, obscene laughter, laughter Haral had heard before. A chill shook the blue man. He wished he could be sure it was only his wound. Again the laugh echoed; again. It came from the staircase, swelling louder and louder with each passing second. And then, there were more _Pervods_, more Thorians, more _Malyas_ and Martians and mutants. There, too, was _Gar_ Sark's famed Uranian riding-chair sweeping into view on its anti-gravitational direction beam. There was Sark. He leered at Haral. Never had the menace stood out in his fat face more sharply.