Curious, nervous, Mahra's rummaging uncovered weapons beneath the gyro's seats. Two electro-blasters and a duelling dagger. They each took a pistol, and she gave the half-breed the long slim knife. Then, when she sat down, her bare shoulder rubbed slightly against him. And remained there. His flesh tingled. His hand gripped the electro-gun tighter in his hand. "Why do the Terrans hate you mutants so much?" he asked. "Are the rumors about you mutant's deadly powers true?" She sighed. "Perhaps some of them are true. Anyway the Normals are very scared of us. That's why they isolate and scourge us. We can rule them when we decide we want to." "Will you want to?" "Perhaps, someday. When the time is right." "I am neither ruled, nor do I wish to rule," said Moljar. "You half-breeds are a strange tribe. Too bad you must all be such barbarians, such savages." He smiled grimly. "We are what we were made. Somehow, the offspring of a Martian-Terran union results in much larger, much longer-living stock. We were envied. Much as you mutants are on Terra, blessed with double-life compared to Normals. We were driven into the deserts, reviled, imprisoned, beaten. There aren't many of us left. Of those thousands who sought to migrate here and find freedom, Alhone's games wiped out all but a few hundred." Her voice sharpened. "You found her attractive! You know you did! You swore to avenge your people and bring her pelt back to Mars. Instead, you run errands for her!" His shaggy black head turned. His eyes blazed with hate into hers. "That alien slut! It was a way out of Venus Port. It will lead me to her again. I could do nothing there." She sulked. He sensed the slight trembling of her arm against his, and smiled. "My vows cannot change. Someday her pelt will hang in Ankhar's trophy cave." She screamed. Her lips quivered as she raised a hand over her face. "Will you?" Her voice shrilled. "A _gruoon_!" Moljar's stomach knotted. He had not even time to fire. The giant flying croc was plunging straight into them. There was a tearing impact. The gyro wobbled. Then the controls went dead. The little ship buckled, vibrated as though the winged crocodile was trying to devour it, rend it with its claws. Then the crushed blades released their hold, and the gyro spun down in a fluttering spiral. Moljar had time to jam his electro-gun and a small magnetic compass into a bag of water-proof plastic and belt it to his waist before they crashed violently into the Sea of Death. II The tribes from which Moljar came were fatalists. Moljar accepted the fact that he was face to face with imminent death. Very well. If there was a way out, he would find it. If not, he would go on to Khles, where dead warriors go. And from Khles he would fight his way into the eternal paradise of Perlarh.