Stolid as was the half-breed's neural circuit, the sudden statement momentarily shocked him. It was rumored that Alhone chose certain fighters to go to Anghore. But that he, a contemptible half-breed should be promised a position as Alhone's personal guard.... "Why me?" he was saying. "In these games I have seen the best fighters of three worlds. But I have never seen anyone fight as you fought tonight." A series of thunderous explosions rocked the stadium. A brilliant pyrotechnic display glittered fantastically through the thick cloud layers above Venus Port. The Mistmen were storming the city with customary thorough and savage efficiency. The crying of a helpless city in pain rose and fell in an aimless pattern of terror. * * * * * Moljar noted the energy guns held in the hands of the Anghorians surrounding their Princess. This was not the time. One aggressive move from him, and he would be annihilated on the spot. If he accepted her proposition, got through to Anghore and was rewarded as she promised, then he would surely eventually be placed in a fool-proof position to kill her. Time meant nothing. He had worked and waited many years. Many more would not matter--if they led to the fulfilment of his pledge. Only her death mattered. Revenge. Her pelt, well cured and soft, presented to his tribesmen. The Mistmen were sweeping toward the Colosseum. The roar of their advance increased rapidly. He must decide. Anghore. Over this outlaw world of blood-lust and savagery, ruled Alhone. Thousands of his kind who had migrated here had been slain under her sanction. But who, or what, was Alhone? What and where was Anghore? Out of the numerous strange and unexplored lands of Venus she might have come. No one knew. There was only a name. Anghore. Anghore that lay somewhere across the Sea of Mort. A few claimed to have seen Anghore--from a distance. A jumble of towers spearing into the mist higher than the mountain peaks. Only Princess Alhone and her ferocious minions knew of it. And no one talked with them. Alhone ruled slave followers with weapons of basic energies as strange in origin as Alhone herself. Followers who, in return for their unquestioning, dogged devotion, held positions of great personal power. In their rich trappings, they ruled over private little spheres of influence, answering only to Alhone. Who was Alhone?--Where was Anghore?--What would he become should he accept this offer? None of these things mattered. Sometime, somewhere, he would have the opportunity to strip that soft furred hide from her quivering body--and no personal price he might pay would be too dear. "Well, Moljar," she was saying. "Doesn't my offer interest you?" He controlled himself well as he nodded. "I'll go to Anghore, wherever it is." Her round pink face crinkled. "You are so certain, barbarian. Few have crossed the Sea of Mort. It is well-named." "I will go to Anghore," he repeated.