There were corridors, then, and stairs and ramps, all leading downward, till at last they moved along a dusty, dim-lit passageway that seemed to stretch forever, echoing and empty. Abruptly, Craig pulled the girl up short. "It's time for explanations," he clipped flatly. The grey eyes rose to meet his, cool and steady. "You came to Lysor on complaint of Tumek, did you not?" "Yes." "And he charged that my father planned aggression that might endanger even your Federation?" Again, Craig nodded. The girl leaned close. "Do you realize what that means, Craig Nesom? Can you imagine to what lengths the barons will go in order to keep you from reaching Tumek?" "But--" A sudden echo of distant voices cut short Craig's answer. The girl went rigid. "Quick!" Her voice hissed taut, now; ragged. "This may be your only chance to contact Tumek--if it is not too late already!" After that there was no more time for words; only a hurrying through the silent passage, till at last a ramp loomed before them and they came out into the day once more. * * * * * Here the tower loomed distant and forbidding, a stark shaft lancing up like a spear-head into the emerald sky. Here were the slums, the quarters of the Baemae, with noise and filth and sweat-drenched bodies that stank rank enough to turn the stomach of any Kukzubas baron. Wordless, still gripping his hand, the girl who was Zenaor's daughter led Craig into a low, cramped wineshop. Dirt scuffed up under his feet. Boisterous voices rang out in shouts and curses, and the stench of stale liquor hung all-pervasive. A couple reeled past, clinging to each other for support. The woman's brief halter hung loose. She was laughing drunkenly, and her near-naked body shone slick with sweat. Beyond her, a man prodded a huge, weird, spider-like lifeform into a shuffling dance atop a table. Craig's jaw tightened. What was he doing in a place like this? How foolish could even a Federation agent get? But the girl's grey eyes still pleaded. Tense, raw-nerved, Craig, followed her through the crowd and din to a table in the wineshop's farthest corner. A gaunt, stoop-shouldered oldster paused beside them. He wore the tabard of the serf-class. "Yes?" "Taxat." The girl spoke for Craig. Her fingers pressed hard against his arm. Her whisper held a note almost of panic: "Quick! Smile, Craig Nesom--before the baron's men suspect the truth and sweep down on us!" Craig flicked a glance across the room. For the first time he became aware of the presence of solitary loungers--cold-faced, tight-lipped men who stood close by the walls, nursing stale drinks. Their eyes were on him. The back of his neck prickled. He bared his teeth in a thin, bleak grin. "I might play better if I knew the game," he murmured beneath his breath.