Was there no solution anywhere to this monstrous scheme of Zenaor's? Would other planets go down before it like the Baemae? And his own life ... must he resign himself to defeat and death? Was that to be his destiny, the end of his assignment here on Lysor? Bleakly, he wondered. Then, afar off, a moving speck appeared, racing through the sky. Craig stiffened. "Bukal...." The Baemae shaded his eyes. "A disc," he clipped, tight-lipped. "More trouble...." Together, Lysorian and Earthman lanced towards the approaching saucer. Then it was close at hand, and Craig could hardly believe his eyes. For a woman rode it--a slim, young girl with golden hair that rippled and shimmered in the sunlight. "Narla--!" he choked. "Narla!" She swept close, then, and they grounded their discs on a knoll and she was in his arms again, laughing and crying at once. * * * * * Pushing her back at last, Craig held her at arm's length, feasting his eyes upon her. For today she was a different Narla. Her heavy Kukzubas cape was gone, replaced by the scanty scarlet halter and paneled belt of the free Baemae. A fire-gun hung at her hip, a jeweled ceremonial dagger across her thigh, and she carried one of the long black whips with which Bukal's men herded the djevoda. Laughing, she pirouetted. "You see, Craig? This time I come as one of you, not Zenaor's kidnapped daughter." Craig nodded. "Yes, I see. But--what of your father? How did you get here?" A shadow crossed the lovely face. But the girl's grey eyes stayed clear, her voice steady. "Once, Craig Nesom, I told you that I was--would ever be--your woman. That is what brought me here; that only. My father took me from Vydys, yes, trading tanagree oil for my life. But he could not hold me. Not when you stood here, fighting with the Baemae. I fled from the Central Tower to an old friend among the Baemae. She gave me this garb and saucer, and told me where to find you. So, now"--she shrugged smooth shoulders--"I am here, to stand beside you." Wordless, unable to speak, Craig again embraced her. Only then Bukal was talking, breaking in upon them. "The ourobos come closer," he clipped. "There's no time to waste. My people need me." Spinning their discs, the three took to the air and ranged north till they reached the river and the village. The village. Tension crawled through it now, lined on every face, reflected in every movement. Men, women, children--they crowded round as the trio stepped from their discs. Bukal searched the frightened faces. "What is it?" "New nests of ourobos!" a man burst out; and another croaked, "Already, the djevodas are in flight. By tonight--" He broke off. There was no need to say more. "Then ... we have no choice." Bukal shrugged, bronzed shoulders heavy. "We must join the others along the barrier." "Must we?" This from a woman. "Must we, Bukal--when we hold Zenaor's daughter as our prisoner?" Taut silence echoed, sudden as summer thunder.