"Sure. Don't crowd," said Tompkins. "The boy's a little trigger nervous tonight. Maybe going to do your first job for Firebird, huh? Does she allow you gambling and drinking money?" Nathan lifted his glass slowly and studied Tompkins and the men about him. He could feel the unplumbed depths of emotion that was being turned upon him. Then he got it. It was their pent up resentment and hatred of Firebird. They would not have dared bait her like this. It would have led to shooting, and none of them wanted to be known as her killer. Their own peculiar codes were responsible for this. Dueling with Firebird would be open admission that she was their equal. She was perfectly safe in the tavern full of thieves and killers who would have welcomed news of her death at the hand of someone else. Nathan felt like laughing at himself for considering himself something of a noble protector as he had entered the "Orbit" behind Firebird. In reality, she was safe, but the spacemen didn't mean for him to be alive when he left. "You've got me all wrong, gentlemen," said Nathan. "I think Firebird killed my father and I'm stringing along to keep tabs on her. And we have a little agreement that might interest you. Between us we have four of the Seven Jewels of Chamar--" * * * * * Instantly, the smirking, taunting grins became frozen deadliness. The circle pressed inward. "I wouldn't come any closer," Nathan advised. "Four of the Seven!" exclaimed Tompkins. "I think you're a liar." "We'll take care of that later," said Nathan. "We've come to get the other three. Then we'll settle who is to keep them, as well as the matter of my father's murder. I mention it because I thought some of you gentlemen might help us. In fact, you might have one or more of the Jewels right here in this room. We'll be glad to relieve you of them." There was a dangerous trick with a flame lance that Nathan had learned from his father. The flame could be made to reflect from a wooden surface if the angle of incidence and the intensity of the beam were just right. Nathan had watched the play building up in the circle about him. It was almost ready to go. Behind Tompkins, one of the spacemen had carefully drawn his flame lance. Nathan knew it by the slow movement of the man's shoulders and his attempts to keep his eyes carelessly forward. Tompkins was keeping close against the man, one arm on the edge of the bar. In a moment the point of the lance would appear at Tompkins' waist and blast--as soon as Nathan's attention was turned away from Tompkins. Carefully, Nathan weighed his chances. He had about a fifty-fifty chance of coming out alive. He wondered just why Firebird had devised such a trap. Right now she was sitting alone at a table on the opposite side of the room, apparently not paying any attention to what was going on.