Slowly, Zenaor straightened. Cold-eyed, he glanced to the glassite cubicle ... the dead serfman, swallowed up in the pulsing slime-mass of the ourobos. He was hardly aware that Narla was stepping quietly from the laboratory chamber. Again, the voice from the com-box: "My lord...." Harsh-voiced, face set, Zenaor threw back his answer: "Let them land." And then, beneath his breath: "But blasting off alive will be another matter!" CHAPTER II She was the loveliest creature Craig Nesom had ever seen. Or perhaps that was only the hunger gnawing in him--the Earth-hunger, the aching loneliness that comes to all men who dare to roam the far void to the stars. Yet here he stood, on this strange, mediaevalish world of Lysor. And here _she_ stood before him, smiling. Suddenly, to Craig Nesom, it didn't matter that they were met in an alien city called Torneulan, or that she was Narla, daughter of Lord Zenaor, whose rule here he had come to question. The crowd's clamor, the bizarre costumes, the twin suns blazing like green balls of fire against an emerald sky--what did they count now? For gazing into this slim girl's eyes, he could almost forget duty and the Federation and the starship, the darkling dreams of friends and homeland. She said, "_Tarata, fodal_.... Welcome, voyager," and he was glad that she paused and smiled and spoke ... glad for the psychmen's hypnoscanner treatment that let him understand her words, her meaning. He matched her pleasantry. "This drink called taxat--will you join me for one?" "A taxat--?" Her eyes danced. She took his arm. "Of course." Only then, though her lips still curved, the grey eyes seemed to shadow. Her voice dropped and now, all at once, it held a note of bitterness, of tension: "If death stays its hand long enough for us to drink it." He stared. "_What--?_" The shadow vanished. His companion laughed softly; tossed her head in a gesture old as woman, so that the shimmering blonde hair swirled and rippled. Only in her whisper did the dark undercurrent still show through: "Please, come! Do not let your face betray us!" For the fraction of a second Craig hesitated, weighing her with his eyes. Of a sudden he was acutely aware of alien sounds and smells and voices. Only then the girl whispered, "Please...." again. Her eyes held mute entreaty. Stiff, wordless, Craig let her lead him through the throng and din of the assembled barons and their ladies ... out of the emerald sunlight, along the shadowy porticos of the tower itself. The Central Tower. The Tower of Zenaor. The girl darted a quick glance back over her shoulder, then whispered, "Hurry! We must get out before they realize that we are missing!" Catching Craig's hand in hers, half-running, she pulled him through the nearest door, into the massive building.