In the same instant, it seemed to Haral that he could see her lids open beneath the veil. But he could not be sure. She tried to lift herself; fell back. Fiercely, Haral slashed at the crystal with his elbow. The heavy copronium elbow-piece of his armor tore through the globe--puncturing, not shattering. Haral stabbed at the bubble again, and it ripped, in the manner of some flexible, transparent plastic. Forcing a hand into the gash, the blue man tore a great chunk loose, clear to the floor: then another. Stepping inside, he bent over the woman--gripping her shoulders; straining for her whisper. "Quick! The flagon--!" Her hand stretched out in a feeble gesture. Haral followed the movement to a holder beside the cot. It held a flask. Snatching up the container, he tore away the seal, then lifted and held the woman while she drank in great, greedy gulps. When at last the flask was empty, she sank back once more. But now color was flowing to her face. Her breathing steadily grew deeper and more regular. Haral let his weight rest on the edge of the cot. Very gently, he reached to lift the goddess' veil. Spasmodically, her hands came up. "No--!" Nails dug into his wrist. He started at the tempestuous violence of her; the sudden strength. Then, wearily, he drew back his hand. In the same instant Sark's voice lanced in: "Leave her alone, _chitza_!" Haral turned. * * * * * The raider chief and his men were back, now. They poured into the crypt in a rush. Sark himself swept toward the dais in his riding-chair as on the crest of a wave, ahead of all the others. His thick lips were working, his eyes hot with excitement. But his fingers never left the cymosynthesizer switch. Haral clenched his fist in frustrated fury. Of a sudden his wounds, his weariness, hung heavy on him. He glimpsed Kyla. Hesitantly, she, too, was coming towards the goddess. Her lips were parted as if to cry out in protest against this whole bizarre affair. Deep lines of strain marred the pale loveliness of her face. Sark cried: "Back, _chitza_! Stand clear of Xaymar!" For an instant Haral stiffened. Then, painfully, he forced himself to his feet. But now a new voice interrupted, imperious and vibrant: "Who are you to give commands, fat beast, here in the innermost sanctuary of Xaymar, queen of storms?" Haral pivoted. The woman on the cot now sat erect, her very stance a mirror of haughtiness and pride. Anger flamed in Sark's puffy cheeks. "Who dares to question? I am Sark--" "Yes. He is Sark," Haral cut in. He poured savage irony into his words. "They say you are a goddess, Xaymar. But he--he is Sark, _gar_ of the space-raiders, a being so fierce and brave he does not even dare to waken you himself!" "Silence, _chitza_!" shrieked the raider chief.