"Then you should hurry. The Mistmen are outside the stadium now, and I'm sure they would like to find us here. At the other end of the stadium, above the catacombs, is the gyro-scout. For emergencies in the games," she laughed. "It has seldom been used. Take it. Its directional beam is already set for Anghore. It will take you directly there. If you have the key." Moljar flexed his shoulders. His eyes were narrow, suspicious. No one ordinarily could break through the Mistmen's detector bands. Then how could _he_? He shrugged. At least he would be free for a while. Alhone removed the gleaming yellow stone from one of her semi-webbed fingers. She dropped it to him. "This will open the gyro to you. It will function only under this stone's influence. It will also, if you reach my castle, open the gates into Anghore. You shall be rewarded, Moljar--bountifully." His eyes fastened on her throat. "Yes," he said. "I depend on it." He slipped the vibrant, throbbing yellow stone on his smallest finger. He stepped back and then a tremendous blast of energy surged against him. The blue field which enveloped the Anghorians was beginning to fade. A stabbing pain lanced up his spine, up into his brain, to explode there in a flash of wrenching agony. He stumbled, went down. The blue field blurred, swirled, deepened in color. It became a vortex of violently churning silver shot with fire. A nauseous weakness spread through him. The Anghorians, the stadium, the whirling blue fires, all faded. * * * * * He opened his eyes slowly. It was raining. A few fat warm drops were spattering down, then a curtain of water spilled from the stadium wall. Shamefully he climbed to his feet, shook his head, looked about warily for Mistmen. If he had blanked out it had only been for a few seconds. The blue field was gone. And with it, Alhone and her sycophants. Instinctively, he jerked his hand up. The yellow ring-key was gone. He bellowed bitterly. And a laugh answered. Gasdon! He turned. The Martian outlaw had one arm around the struggling Terran girl. She was biting and striking and cursing, but with no effect. She writhed helplessly under his arm. There was a yellow flash on the outlaw's other hand as it raised, clutching an alloy bar. Gasdon had taken the key! The half-breed swept a defense bar from a gladiator's stiff dead hand. Gasdon laughed fearless scorn, threw the girl from him, and met Moljar's rush with his own bar upraised. They crashed together with a dull clang, parted, struck again. They circled warily, feinting, parrying, thrusting.... Mahra's scream rang out. "The Mistmen! Coming into the arena!" Moljar's eyes darted toward her. Beyond, far across the sands, were a number of grey vaporous spheres. Within their depths, dim shapes, indistinct, blurred, moved in a steady ferocious intent toward the three.