Flane threw the girl high in the air, across a saddle. With the flat of his hand, he slapped the rump of the plunging _megathon_. Then Flane was leaping, grasping reins with sure hands, his foot feeling for the carven stirrup. "We'll divide," Flane yelled to a Moornalian. "The _mekniks_ want us most of all!" They were off in a clatter of hooves striking sparks from the cobblestoned driveway, leaning forward over the necks of the _megathons_, reins loose. Flane looked at Vawdar, positive that he grunted, but Vawdar waved a hand, and they went on. For once in his life, Flane was glad that the Machine was dead. If it were alive, the _mekniks_ could have swept their group with guns that would have turned them into drifting powder. But now only a few arrows fell and bounced on the stones behind them. They were going away from the Moornalians now. Flane saw them, bobbing shadows moving into the night. He flung up an arm, and waved. There was red hair blowing free in the wind, over there, and Flane felt as though he watched his life ebbing from him, staring across at her. The _megathons_ were swift. Flane thought with surprise that they were even faster than the horses of the Klarn. Then he saw the thin horn protruding up from the forehead of the beast. It was filed to a fine point, and coated with metal. He grinned. This was a fighting _megathon_, spawned and bred for a special job. He gave the animal its head, and let him run into the night. * * * * * After many hours, Flane became aware that Vawdar rode too silently. He himself was full of the flame of the red-haired girl, but Vawdar should be talking, revealing the secret of the key to the Machine. He turned--and then cursed softly. Vawdar lay across the neck of his mount. In the moons' light, Flane could see the haft of a dagger distending from the middle of his back. Up and down he bobbed, arms interwoven with the reins to prevent his falling. With gentle hands Flane drew him down; made him easy on the sands, with cloak at his neck, and a flagon of wine at his lips. Vawdar whispered, "They got me in front of the gate, just as we were clearing them. Someone threw a dagger." Flane was bitter. "My fault. Fool, fool! Forgive me, Vawdar!" The older man chuckled softly, "It is good for Klarn that there is one man who can stop to kiss a wench when men are dying all around him. It bodes high hope for the future, Flane." But the dark-haired youth would not be soothed. He said things about himself until Vawdar writhed suddenly on the ground, back arched. "I haven't--much time," the man on the sand whispered. Flane bent, ear to his mouth. "The key of the Machine, it--it isn't what--we think. It--"