Space Commander Mason moved his right hand swiftly downwards. It came up from beneath his cloak with a gun. He smiled grimly, "You're big and you're powerful as a bullock, and you're _different_. I don't want to test your skin with a shower of light photons, but--" Katha came up to Tyr. There was a hungry look in her eyes and about her mouth. She whispered, "Be sensible, god of the Trylla! You are a long time dead. Come with me. Later you can meet the Space Commander, when his surprise has worn off." Across the black sheen of her coiled hair he looked at the bald man and read a pride as great as his own in the blue eyes. Dimly he knew that Commander Mason was possessed of a will of steel and power as great as his own, among his people. Tyr nodded. "I will come with you." Katha lifted her black cloak and threw it around her slender shoulders. She cast a red-lipped smile at him and tucked her arm through his. "Come along to my apartment," she laughed. "I want you to tell me more about yourself." * * * * * The alleys were dark and deserted. Underfoot the rounded edges of the _calanian_ cobblestones bit into their thin sandals. The cyclopean stone structures towered black and forbidding against the pale greyness of the night sky. Like spiderwebs of giant structure, great space-vox antennae were flung from tower to tower. They walked slowly through the warm night, and others walked faster. It was Tyr who heard the clanking of a guard's accoutrements, the _thup_ of a holstered ray-gun smiting a trousered thigh, the harsh rattle-clang of manacles and chains. His wrist dragged her against him, and back with him into the shadows of a recessed door. Many men were coming down the street. There were a lot of chains, too. A sliver of moonlight touched the leading man who walked stooped with iron and the pain of open whipcuts. "Zarman!" breathed Tyr. His brain raced. Zarman was the governor appointed by Tyr. The _ardth_ had taken him and flogged him. It was a sign of their power over Tyr. The people needed a sign from their god. If he were to free Zarman and send him back to the people-- Tyr was across the cobblestones and his right fist was coming up in a short arc. A startled guard did not have time to open his mouth before the back of his head touched his spine and his neck cracked under that blow. Tyr lowered him with his left hand in the small of his back, as he snatched up the heatgun from the holster. "Tyr!" sobbed Zarman, straightening. The others knew him too, and in place of the blind pain and despair, came the laugh of hope to snap their backs straight and their chins forward. "Beware," they whispered. "There are more of them." Tyr moved into the shadows, saying, "Keep marching. Turn at the corner--and wait."