Turning, the chief shouted something. Three spearmen stalked within the circle around the Earthmen and came out with the uniformed figure of the corporal. The ancient shaman jabbered excitedly, but the chief did not look happy. * * * * * Sid Masters came brawling through the ring of spearmen, fighting clear with flailing arms and legs. "Wait a minute, chief!" he cried. "Who's running the show round here, you or that magician?" The shaman jabbered, but the chief silenced him with a gesture. "I am chief of the Mandmoora," he said slowly. "The girl is trying to save your son's life. Is that the thanks we get--what you're going to do with the corporal?" The chief was silent for a few moments, meditating. Then: "Let him go. Until the girl has succeeded--or failed." The shaman jabbered again. He didn't like it but he returned, grumbling, to his hillock. Jane was already going to work on the stricken prince. First she tore a strip from her jumper and used it to bind the prince's upper arm. The bleeding was first. She had to stop the bleeding. Twisting a pencil in the knotted tourniquet, she tightened it until the blood had stopped flowing. She felt anything but calm. She actually felt queasy. But somehow her fingers worked quickly and surely and before long a few score of the Mandmoorans came to watch. "He's lost an awful lot of blood," Jane told Sid Masters. "I've stopped the bleeding now, but he needs a transfusion if he's going to have a real chance. And look at the wound, will you? It's dirty. He needs antibiotics and he needs them fast." "On the flotilla out there?" Sid asked. "They ought to have antibiotics." "Get them then," Jane said, and turned to the chief. "My companion needs strong medicine from the boats which wait." "Stay. All stay." "Then your son dies." The chief looked at her. He was very quiet. The shaman wailed louder now. "Go," said the chief, and Sid Masters went splashing out into the water. Five minutes later, swimming hard, he returned to the beach. He produced a water-proof packet of antibiotic powders and Jane opened it and let the powders sift down on the prince's wound. "Listen," Sid whispered. "We're in trouble, all right. They can't be sure when the sun is going to nova, you see? They figure it ought to be about seventeen hours, but nobody's going to make book with his life. They're giving us fifteen minutes. Then they're pulling out. They're sorry, but they're pulling out. You can't blame them, Jane, especially since interstellar law won't permit them the use of force." "But you came back, Sid," Jane said. "We're trying to help the boy. Besides, I couldn't leave you holding the bag like this--alone with those soldiers and three thousand fanatic Mandmoorans." Jane smiled at him. There was nothing else she could offer him now. Their deaths seemed almost a certainty. They would be--had to be--deserted. They would be left to the Mandmoora--and the novaing sun.