"Of course, Jarl...." She moved close beside him, helping him as he limped to Tas Karrel's quarters. Then they came to the cabin, and she, too, would have entered. But he barred her way. "No, Sais." "Jarl...." "No." He shook his head, closed the door. Heavily, he stumbled to a couch and dropped down. But though Sais stayed behind, his own dark thoughts would not. It was madness, this venture; what other name could a man find for a wild dash for Womar? Yet what else could he do, with time running out on him? At best, he had three slim Earth days to save Ceres. Three slim days, less the travel.... And Womar.... What might he find when at last he ramped there? Suppose Wassreck was wrong, and there were no robots? Or if the metal monsters still lay hidden there, how much chance had he to find them? As for fitting them for battle, mastering the controls that sent them forth.... * * * * * He shuddered, and his brow seemed suddenly burning hot, as with a fever. Then he chilled. Shaking, drawing covers close about him, he wondered if his wounds had drained him, sapped his strength too low. But what chance did he have, unless he went on to Womar? What chance indeed, when even his own kind turned against him! His own kind, the raiders. He knew them so well--how they felt, the twist of their reckless, ice-edged thinking. And because he knew, it was not in him to hate them or betray them. No; at worst, he could only strive and fail. And if he failed--? He cursed and twisted. _rey_ Gundre would surely blast the raider fleet. The outlaw worlds would die. Freedom would die with them. Wassreck, too. Three days only ... for freedom, and for Wassreck.... Perhaps he slept, then. Or perhaps it was only delirium's distorted screen that drew the twisting patterns across his mind. Whatever it was, it lifted brain from body ... moved him up from Tas Karrel's couch--out of the room, the ship itself ... across the void, through space and time. The hideous, shining masks of Womar's primitives hurtled down upon him out of swirling mists. Madly, he battled strange life-forms in a world he'd never seen. But he was not alone, for now other faces revolved past him slowly, crying fearful words he could not hear ... Ungo's face; Ylana's.... Ylana--! The red lips smiled and mocked him as she beckoned, and her hair was a rippling pool of purest gold. There was the softness of her body pressed against him; the grey eyes, shadowy as silver pools. Ungo. Ylana. Where were they? Why had they left him to die back there on Ceres? What could have taken them away? Now Bor Legat's face came sweeping towards him, basilisk orbs twin mirrors of craft and malice. His body plates were rattling with his laughter--the merciless, cacophonic laughter of the Mercurian who sees his enemy fall and die.