Laughter--ghoulish, obscene--rocked the raider chief. His rolls of fat shook. Tears of sheer sadistic glee spilled down his puffy cheeks. But he still kept his hand on the switch set in the arm of the riding-chair. Bleak, watchful, Haral brought the _hwalon_ to a halt in the lee of the wall nearest the arena. With the casualness of long habit, he surveyed the crowd, the ground, the disposition of Sark's forces. In the same instant, he caught himself wondering whether Sark would laugh as loud by the time this day was done. Or whether either he or Sark would live to laugh. He smiled wryly. But now, for the time, the raider's mirth had passed. A sudden air of suppressed tension came into his manner. His fleshy hand came up in a curt, peremptory gesture. Instantly, two leering reptilian _Pervods_ from his crews dragged forward another victim. But this time their prey was no quaking Ulno. Instead, they held a woman. A taut, furious excitement surged up within Haral. He sucked in air; leaned forward, gripping the _hwalon's_ saddle hard between his knees. Sark gestured. The _Pervods_ dragged their prisoner to him. * * * * * She was young. Haral saw now; young, and slim, and incredibly lovely. Hair like spun gold hung to her waist--the silken blonde hair of the _Shamon_, the race that had ruled Ulna in the days before the renegades of a dozen worlds poured in from across the void to make the planetoid a blood-drenched, anarchistic madhouse. But more than her face or body, it was her garb that held the blue man. For she wore the blue cloak of Xaymar's order, and against her high, proud breasts hung the shining _toloid_ metal tablet that signified her consecration. Once more, the gross monster that was _Gar_ Sark leaned forward. He spoke to the girl in a gentle, beguiling voice that struck a clashing paradox with the fiend's own soul that dwelt within him: "They call you Kyla, do they not?" He touched the tablet that rested upon her breasts. A webbed finger traced the lightning-bolt symbol emblazoned on it. "Kyla, virgin priestess to the veiled woman-goddess Xaymar, the one your people call the queen of storms...." The blue man could see the tremor that rippled through the girl at Sark's grisly touch. But she did not quail. When she spoke, her voice was steady. "That is true." "Xaymar, queen of storms...." the raider chief repeated softly. He leaned back in the riding-chair, eyes sleepy and low-lidded. "She once lived, did she not, in mortal form? Here, on your planetoid of Ulna?" "Yes. That is what the stories say." "At her command, the storm-clouds gathered? She hurled the lightning bolts against her enemies?" "So it is written in our sacred books." "But then she went away," Sark murmured. "She left all you who were her people." The girl called Kyla did not answer.