He was on the coral outcropping offshore, and except for the involuntary muscles of balance and respiration his body was paralyzed. The first red glow of sunrise blurred the reflected rainbow at his feet, but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the danger of predicament. _Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first_, he thought. _That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle._ Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards; more seconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with the effort. He had to get help. If he could switch on the audicom at his belt and call Stryker.... He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and failed. His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. He relaxed the effort with a groan, sweating again when he saw a fiery half-disk of sun on the water, edges blurred and distorted by tiny surface ripples. On shore he could see the _Marco Four_ resting between thorn forest and beach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open, and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yet returned with the scouter. He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the cold surface of the audicom unit at his hip--unfelt before--was pressing against the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again toward motion; this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaring through him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud.... The tiny click of its engaging sent him faint with relief. "Stryker!" he yelled. "Lee, roll out--_Stryker_!" The audicom hummed gently, without answer. He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill of horror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before. Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be easily disturbed. The flattened sun-disk on the water brightened and grew rounder. Above its reflected glare he caught a flicker of movement, a restless suggestion of flapping wings. * * * * * He tried again. "Stryker, help me! I'm on the islet!" The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, but Gibson's. "Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?" Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that--get here fast, Gib! The flying-lizards--" He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the outcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbed tentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard the unmistakable flapping of wings behind and above him then, and thought with shock-born lucidity: _I wanted a backstage look at this show, and now I'm one of the cast_.