Gesturing him back, Bukal swung the disc clear of the ground, holding it waist-high, plate-flat. "Now, I spin it...." He whipped it round as if its center were mounted on a pivot, pulling through with his right hand, guiding with the left. The boat was almost to the island now. The guards were readying their weapons. Faster, till the wave-flow catches.... The disc was spinning like a top now, parallel with the ground. Craig threw a quick glance at the guard-boat. A trickle of sweat rilled down his spine. He looked back to Bukal and the saucer. Suddenly, there was the slightest of jerks. The disc seemed to vibrate. Bukal dropped his hands. For a moment the disc hung in the air, spinning free. And then, incredibly, instead of falling, slowly it began to rise! Open-mouthed, Craig stared, still not quite believing. But already, Bukal, was moving. Nimbly, he threw himself forward, flat on the disc. The plate stopped spinning. As if by magic, it hung suspended in the air, swaying gently. Bukal clambered to his feet, balancing on the polished surface as a bather might upon a surfboard. Tilting skillfully, he sideslipped the strange craft down a fraction lower. "Get on!" Sucking in a breath, Craig slid aboard. Bare yards away, the boat beached. Guards swarmed ashore, cursing and shouting. Nonchalantly, Bukal threw them a salute, and brought the disc round in a lazy, climbing spiral. Green fire, falling short. Fuming rage, wild curses. "You see--?" The elation of triumph rang in Bukal's voice. "It's the end of the barons, Earthman! How can any barriers hold back the Baemae, when with discs like this we can sail above them? To the south, there's the whole djevoda range and freedom! Already, we've colonies of our own down there, free colonies, spread out so the barons can't strike at them. We're turning out these discs by hundreds--emptying the cities, stripping the estates to their last serfman--" Frowning, narrow-eyed, Craig stared down at the panorama spread out below them, then off to the glittering towers of Torneulan. "Why send for me, then?" he cut in on the other. "Who's Tumek? What made him call for help from the Federation?" The discman's face sobered. "Why--?" He shrugged. "That I can't tell you; it's still Tumek's secret." "And ... who is he?" "Tumek?" Light came back to Bukal's bronzed face. "Call him genius: that says it." "But--" "A statue-caster by trade; old, now; one of the free Baemae craftsmen. These discs--he devised them. The colonies, too--they're part of his plan." "Yet he sent for help...." Craig's frown deepened. "He heard rumors of some new scheme of Zenaor's." Bukal shifted, glanced up into the darkening sky. Tilting the disc, he crept it in towards the outskirts of the city's bleak Baemae quarter. "When the green day suns, Boh and Koh, set, and night comes, I'll drop you off near him. He's hiding in the shop of a friend, Notal, in the Street of Arts, waiting for you."