Each wore a long straight sword and a slender dagger at his side. Their pink cat-faces masked cold, sadistic evil. Alien. One reached out a paw-like hand at Mahra. His almost lipless mouth slid open, and the incongruous whining speech mewed its travesty of human tones. "This woman has not been called. She does not belong here." He turned to his fellow. "Take her to the Matrix. Ghils is experimenting with the seventh plain. She will be useful there." "You are to come with me," he said, turning to Moljar. The half-breed's hand rested on his dagger. He had fallen instinctively into a half-crouch. "How did you know I was coming here?" "You will learn many things about Anghore. You have much to learn." "I'm stubborn about my subjects, and my instructors," growled Moljar. And, as the other Anghorian stepped toward Mahra, Moljar leaped at his throat. As his left hand clutched the corded body, his right hand whipped the cat man's dagger free. It rested harshly now against the furred man's broad silken chest. "Do not touch the girl," he warned in the small pointed ear. The other catman said evenly, "A dangerous act. But excusable. You have not yet learned the formalities of Anghore." He moved in a blinding blur of speed. Mahra gasped, as his body streaked across her vision like a flash of light. * * * * * Moljar went back. The catman thudded against him. His head cracked against the stone wall, and the red tint of the glowing stones deepened to a more personal crimson. He cursed harshly. These catmen could move! Shaking the dimness from his head, he tried to grip the Anghorian's writhing body. His dagger raised and fell, but only found hard stone. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes of fog, and his own blood. He heard Mahra's savage, despairing yells, and caught a glance of her struggling in the other catman's corded arms. He heaved upward. The catman flew off him like a filthy conscience. Moljar flattened against the wall, his dagger crossed before him. And when the catman leaped again, the half-breed was prepared. His clearing vision focused this time on its feral darting movements, and he met that pink snarling face with a long right slash. The pink face crunched, smeared. The big body sheared around, buckled, plunged down. It twitched, and its paws swept about searching for Moljar. Moljar kicked the face until the body stopped moving. The other Anghorian released the girl. He drew his sword and eased toward Moljar. * * * * * A voice said with cruel, morbid interest, "Bring the half-breed to me alive, Akare. Or you will accompany the girl to the seventh plain." Involuntarily, Moljar yelled, "Princess Alhone!" Whining, squealing laughter echoed through the vaulted cavern. Baffled, the barbarian whirled around searching for the voice. It seemed without source. "Alhone," he said again desperately. "You here! How?"