Once more, Craig glanced round at the doorway--and found himself staring straight into the guard-chief's eyes. For a taut, vibrant moment the silence echoed. Then the man in the doorway lashed, "On your feet, Earthling!" Craig felt Narla's nails dig into his arm. Her whisper hissed so faint it might have been imagination: "Window--room behind this...." A knot drew tight in Craig Nesom's belly. Stiffly, he rose ... side-stepped out from behind the table. The hush of the room was deafening now. The wineshop revelers sat like creatures frozen. "You die now, Earthling!" snarled the guard-chief. "Here, beneath the rollers, by Lord Zenaor's own orders." He stepped aside as he spoke. A great, bulbous sphere rolled slowly past him through the doorway. Instinctively, Craig fell back a step. "Stop him!" barked the guard-chief. The words crackled. Two hard-faced loungers by the rear wall sprang forward. Inside Craig Nesom, something snapped. It came to him, of a sudden, that here lay the answer to all his tension and loneliness and homeland hunger. Here, channeled into rage and bruising violence.... With a curse, he smashed a fist square into the face of the foremost of his assailants. A hoarse cry of anguish burst from the man's throat. He crashed back across the nearest table. Like lightning, the hand of the second flashed to an ornate belt-dagger. Craig lunged for him in chill, surging fury. Savagely, he drove his elbow into the soft flesh below the other's rib-casing. The man reeled--retching, knife forgotten. Craig caught him from behind by belt and shoulder ... half-hurled him into the path of the roller that now spun forward. Man and sphere came together with a thud of flesh against flesh. Man went down, screaming. But now other guardsmen were charging in. Whirling, Craig dashed for the door to the back room. In another instant he was through it, racing for the window. A bolt of green fire seared past his head. He ducked. But in the same instant, something struck his shoulder a hammer blow from behind. He sprawled on his knees. Through a strange, blurred haze of pain, it dawned on him that now his right arm hung limp and useless. Only then hands gripped him and dragged him forward, on to the window. Incredulously, he discovered that it was the serving-serf, the grey, stoop-shouldered oldster who had brought the taxat. "Hurry--!" the man panted. "Climb up! I am not strong enough to lift you...." With a tremendous effort, Craig dragged himself erect. Clutching the high sill, he tried to pull himself up to it. The panting serfman heaved and boosted. "Hurry! Hurry--!" A final surge. Momentarily, Craig sagged on his belly on the sill. The serf tugged up the hanging legs and swung them through the opening. From behind Craig came a crash of splintering timbers, a ring of curses. He threw a dazed glance back. Someone--the serf, perhaps?--had slammed shut a heavy door between this rear room and the wineshop proper.