Stiffly, the rawboned Baemae youth dragged himself up from the place where he had fallen. Wordless, shambling, he crossed the pit to where the crumpled, broken thing that had been his sister lay; he knelt there beside her for a moment. Then he arose again and stared up at the packed, engulfing mass of Kukzubas barons and their ladies ... looked on beyond and above them to the dais--to Vydys and to Zenaor. The silence echoed. Thick-voiced, he spoke, then: "You've killed her, curse you--you filth that call yourselves Kukzubas barons!" "True, carrion." This from dark Vydys. "And now you die beside her!" She concentrated. The roller turned, wending its blood-trailing way out from the wall once more. But incredibly, the youth who wore Vydys' black-and-silver livery gave the gore-drenched thing no heed. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, his shoulders shook till he burst out in a wild gale of laughter. "So I die!" It was the mirth of a madman. "Go on, you fools! Kill me! But I die holding a secret that spells your doom, also!" Up on the dais, Lord Zenaor stiffened. He caught Vydys' arm. "Wait! Hold back the roller!" The youth raved on: "Our day is coming, you cutthroats--the day of the Baemae! We have summoned one who will sit in judgment on you, a man from the far Federation! Already, this moment, his starship approaches--" Zenaor surged from his seat. His bull-roar filled the hall: "The night's games are over! I, Zenaor, decree it!" And then, to his guardsmen: "Take that serf to my chambers!" The crowd swirled in tumult. Dark Vydys turned on him. "You cannot--!" "I can, and I do!" For a moment their eyes locked ... a taut, vibrant moment. Then the woman looked away. "If you will it...." The words came out sullen. But already Zenaor was turning, striding off through the light-wall that served as backdrop for the dais, away to the force-shift that led to his quarters. Out again at the seventh level, he stalked into the living-chambers. His daughter, Narla, seated by an antique scanner unit, looked up as he entered, grey eyes cool and speculative. "What--? Is the evening's butchery over already?" Scorn was in her voice. Zenaor's fists knotted. "Once too often you'll tempt me to violence, daughter." Pivoting, he stepped to a wall-stand, slopped taxat into a bor-glass, and drank it down. The girl's brows drew together in the slightest of frowns. Rising in one smooth, graceful motion that set her flaxen hair to shimmering in the caron-light, she followed the chief of barons into the next room. "Is something wrong, father? Were Vydys' tastes more than usually hideous tonight?" The shaft-bell clanged before Zenaor could answer. Stepping around his daughter, he strode back to the entrance. * * * * * Already, guards were dragging in the rawboned Baemae youth from the pit. Blood smeared his right cheek. Shackles hung heavy upon him.