Ker-jon realized the ridge-head's intention too late. He stood just below the dais, eyes intent upon the old albino. But something made him turn, and he bellowed a warning. Flam-harol had raised his needle-gun. Things happened fast after that. Cluny-ann must have seen the danger too, for she pushed her way through the crowd, elbowing people out of her way, reached the ridge-head. They began to grapple, great-thewed mutant and slim, fair-haired girl. It didn't last long. Ker-jon leaped upon the dais, throwing himself at the albino, pulling him down. It was then that Flam-harol fired. Ker-jon felt the needle brush past his cheek, saw a growing stain of red on the albino's jumper. The old man sagged to the floor, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. When Ker-jon kneeled beside him and felt for the heartbeat, the old man was dead. Confused, the crowd milled about. People jostled one another, some shouted angrily. Meaningless action without a leader-- Ker-jon tore his way through the mob. Cluny-ann lay in a sobbing heap on the floor and the ridge-head pointed his weapon at her, shouting for his men to disperse the mob. None of them moved. Undecided, they stood there uncomfortably, shuffling their feet. Clearly, they hadn't responded favorably to cold-blooded murder. Flam-harol whirled, swinging his needle-gun around to face Ker-jon, but he didn't make it. They locked together, stumbled, fell to the floor and rolled about. The needle-gun clattered away harmlessly. Two or three ridge-heads tried to intervene, but growling ominously now, the crowd kept them away. He had a fight on his hands, Ker-jon knew. And sometimes an immensely complex situation could boil down to something as elemental as that. If he lost, the old order would remain; if he won.... The thoughts hindered him, and he longed to drive them from his mind. Just a fight, that was all. Like any of a dozen brawls he had had because of his quick temper. But Flam-harol was superbly-muscled, like all ridge-heads--and strong, strong! He forced Ker-jon over, his back to the floor, and he felt strong hands closing about his throat and a rising-falling motion which pounded his head against the hard metal. Out of a spreading haze, Flam-harol's face leered at him-- Ker-jon groped upward, blindly, got his fingers at the corner of the mutant's mouth, pushed in and tugged. Flam-harol screamed, rolled off him. They stood up, glaring at each other. Ker-jon's breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to rest, rest.... His hands felt weary, so weary that he hardly could lift them, and that was no good, for hard fists pummelled his head, his shoulders, his chest. He struck back, under the bigger man's guard, pounding trip-hammer blows against his belly.