The Street of Arts. Narrow and winding, lined with the small, cramped shops of skilled craftsmen who wrought wondrous things of wood and leather, glass and metal. Here you could buy the finest filigree of silver... paintings on porcelain or plastic ... figurines carved from djevoda tusks ... fabrics that glinted with threads of Xumarian thril and Odak's orlon. And here hid Tumek. Tumek, the statue-caster. Tumek, the sculptor. Tumek, genius of the Baemae ... the man who had devised the flying disc and harnessed the power that surged through his world's magnetic waves. Yet even Tumek had cringed before Zenaor's sadistic schemings and pleaded across a million drals of void for Federation aid. Now, on Bukal's word, he lay in hiding here in the shop of his fellow caster Notal, waiting for the Federation's envoy to arrive. At least, Craig Nesom hoped so. Pausing in the shadows across from Notal's shop, he hesitated for a moment, studying the darkened front with its display of busts that peered out, wan and ghost-like, in the blue night-sun Roh's dim light. Somewhere at the back of the shop, a gleam of yellow flickered. So there was really someone there. Taut-nerved, Craig started forward. Only then, off to his right, metal clanged on metal. Craig froze again. More sounds crept to him ... sounds of shuffling feet, of men in movement. Silent as any spectre, he drew back against the building behind him ... slid left along it till he was lost in the pitch-black angle where the next shop joined it. The shuffling feet drew nearer. Craig caught the hiss of whispering voices. Shapes took form--the shapes of men stalking stealthily, skulking in the shadows. Warily, Craig edged forward a fraction and peered along the front of the shop to his left. But here, too, shapes were emerging from the murk. A stray blue beam glinted on what might have been a weapon. Craig slid back into his angle. The two groups met in mid-street, scant yards out from him. There was a buzz of whispered consultation. Then, silently, both groups drew back. The men spread out, ranging themselves along the wall on his side of the street. Craig held his breath. But already one figure was shuffling towards him, slouching against the wall bare inches from his shoulder. "A curse on the Baemae and their plots!" the intruder muttered. "Night's a time for wine and wenches, not for raiding." Craig grunted wordless affirmation. The stranger turned, peered at him. "Who are you, friend? Which company?" And then, in sudden shock: "You! You're not--" With all his might, Craig slashed a stiff hand-edge across the other's windpipe, his Adam's apple. The man's voice cut off in mid-syllable. Craig crashed the heel of his hand up under a stubbled chin, thanking the stars that his shoulder was no longer stiff. The intruder's head snapped back against the stonework. Hard. Then his knees were buckling. He started to fall. Craig caught him, held him erect.