Vydys' nostrils flared. But before she could speak, the chief of barons turned away. He raised his voice till it echoed through the great vaulted hall. "Wench! Are you ready?" Below him, in the ring, the Baemae girl's lips moved in a soundless agony of panic. A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. Packed bodies shifted and pressed tighter. Hungrily, mercilessly, a thousand eyes appraised the evening's victim. Zenaor said, "Wench, tonight you meet the Lady Vydys' roller. If you survive, I'll make a place for you in my own harem. If not...." He shrugged: turned back to Vydys. "My dear--" Vydys' high, proud breasts rose on a quick-drawn breath. Lithely, she twisted in her seat. "My helm, serf!" The rawboned Baemae youth who wore her livery lifted the ornate metal headdress from its case; stepped forward. His face was pale, sweat-beaded. His hands trembled. Vydys' eyes distended. "Why do you shake so, carrion?" The youth's voice quavered. "She--that girl...." He floundered, groped. "She--she is my sister, Lady Vydys." "Your sister!" The mask of anger fell away from Vydys' face. "You mean she is of your blood? You love her?" Mutely, the serfman nodded. "And you would suffer were she to meet my roller?" Again, the liveried Baemae's head moved in silent affirmation. * * * * * A light gleamed deep in Vydys' eyes, all dark and evil. Once more, she ran the small, pink tongue along her lips, as if savoring the tension of the moment. "You--you will spare her--?" The youth's words came out a hoarse, cracked whisper. "Spare her--and spoil the evening's entertainment?" The Lady Vydys' ripe lips curved in a small, slow smile that was straight from hell. "Surely, serf, you would not ask that of me!" And then: "Place my helm upon me." A new tremor ran through the serving-serf. Wordless, he slid the shining metal casing down over the jet hair, seated it carefully upon the woman's head. Approvingly, she nodded. "Now, seat yourself before me--here, where I can watch your face." Stiff-lipped, the youth obeyed. Vydys laughed softly; turned to Zenaor. "You see, my lord? Down there in the ring will be the wench, pitting herself against my roller; while here close by me sits her brother, suffering with her. It offers a new kind of titillation!" Zenaor shrugged. "As you will it." Eyes sparkling, Vydys leaned forward. "Let in the roller!" An iron gate lifted. A faceted four-foot sphere bowled slowly out of the shadowed passage into the walled ring. The roller. A strange creature, in any evolutional pattern. Its surface was completely covered with leathery, inch-wide octagonal pads, each centered with a third-inch cup that served as combined mouth and mode of movement. For through these cups it both took nourishment and pulled itself in whatever direction it sought to go by applying differential suction to the surface on which it rested.