"Oh--?" the girl exclaimed, too loudly. She shot Craig a low-lashed, coquettish glance and pushed closer, sliding her hand over his. Her lips barely moved. "Later, you madman! For now, look at me as men look at woman!" She drew back as she spoke, flaunting her slim young body's charms before him in a sinuous, sensuous motion. Her face was a pale oval cameo of loveliness. Temptation, incarnate, came to life in the lithe twist of her torso. Craig caught his breath. "You devil--!" The red lips quivered. "You see? You learn quickly!" The girl relaxed, leaned against him. "Make love to me, voyager. Your arms--put them about me. Kiss me...." A numbness gripped Craig. His hands trembled. But the girl's bare leg and hip pressed hard against him. Her hair brushed his cheek, soft as perfumed silk, and her skin was smoother than any satin. "Are you afraid of me, then, Craig Nesom?" "Damn you!" he choked. Only then her cool fingers slid beneath his uniform jacket, and all at once his heart was pounding, pounding. The room, the noise, the cold-eyed loungers--they faded till he could think of nothing but the ripe lips and their invitation. It was the loneliness, he told himself; the old Earth-hunger. And here was this woman, Zenaor's own daughter, the antidote, his for the taking. He would have strained her to him, then, in spite of all his doubts and thoughts of Federation rules and duty. But now the serving-serf was back, bearing twin silver cones of taxat. The girl pushed away from Craig, smoothing her tousled hair. Her face was flushed. Her eyes dodged his. A sort of senseless fury gripped him. "It's you who are afraid!" he lashed. "You bring me here. You tempt me. But then you push away again--" The girl's eyes flashed. Once more, she leaned close. Her voice was suddenly edged and brittle. "My task is to help you get to Tumek, Earthman. To that end, and in order to help dispel suspicion, I have no choice but to act like any Kukzubas woman who would rendezvous with a lover in the Baemae quarter. But it goes no further. Now that I have brought you here, a courier will take you on to Tumek. When he comes--" She broke off sharply, eyes flaring sudden panic. "Craig--!" Craig half-turned in his seat. * * * * * A man stood framed in the wineshop's doorway--a tall broad-shouldered man who wore a high-crowned metal helmet like none that Craig had ever seen before. His sweeping shoulder-cape bore the blaze of brocaded heraldry of Lord Zenaor's service, and his eyes, his mouth, were cruel and grim. Now he paused on the wineshop's threshold, sweeping the place with a glance that held no mercy. A hush fell over the echoing, low-ceilinged room--the hush of fear. Men's faces paled, and women shrank back as if to hide behind their partners. Beside Craig, Narla whispered, "That man--he is my father's chief of guards, the master of the rollers! They must already guess you're on your way to Tumek--"