Why should he die here, alone and forgotten? Yet die he would: he knew that now. But at least, it would cost them. He fumbled up a brick-sized stone ... took his stand against the roof-edge, spraddle-legged. The guards closed in--warily, now, but moving ever closer. It was in that moment that the shadow fell across him. At first Craig thought it was a cloud that had drifted between him and the twin emerald suns. Then he glimpsed the guards' faces, and knew it was not. Dropping to one knee, left arm held high to shield his face, he stared up at the thing now skimming towards him. It was a disc--a shining, circular chip somehow suspended in the sky. A man in a Baemae tabard balanced lithely on it. Now, while Craig watched, the disc tilted and raced towards him. A guard shouted. As one, he and his fellows lunged forward. * * * * * Craig hurled his stone. By more luck than good judgment, it caught the foremost guard square in the forehead. The man went down like an axed ox. His fellows stopped short. In the same instant the disc whipped round in a tight spiral close by Craig's side. "Get on! Flat between my legs...." The rider's voice rasped raw and urgent. Craig threw himself aboard. Angry cries from the guards. Green fire spurting. A shout from the discman: "Hold tight!" Barely in time. Craig caught the disc's rim. For as he did so, the disc's Baemae rider shifted weight sharply. With startling suddenness, the saucer tilted to a forty-five degree angle. Another shift. The disc cartwheeled round in a fast spin that had Craig clinging with teeth and toenails. Then the strange craft was climbing and spinning at once, faster and faster. Even the Baemae pilot dropped to his knees and gripped the disc's edge. They cleared the roof ... peeled off in a wide arc that carried them out and away from the building, still climbing. The guards' shouts welled to a furious chorus of frustration. Craig glimpsed more streaks of flame. But they burned out far short of their target. The disc wheeled on, the whole of the ancient Baemae quarter spread out below it. The serf's fingers dug into Craig's shoulder. He was laughing now--a fierce, bubbling chortle of triumphs. "You see, Earthman? These discs will free Lysor of its thrice-cursed barons! With your aid, Craig Nesom--" Craig started. "You ... know my name--?" "Did you think I came here to save you by mere chance?" The discman chuckled. "No. I was your contact, to help take you to Tumek. But Zenaor's guardsmen got to you before me. So I stood by and waited, in hopes I could save you." Craig nodded slowly. "Then you can give me some answers, too--about this whole business." "A few." The discman straightened. "But that can wait till we have landed...." Skillfully, he guided the disc off, away from the city; brought it down on a tiny, brush-clotted river island. Stepping clear, he helped Craig up and gripped his hand. "They call me Bukal."