But perhaps he might take _rey_ Gundre with him. _rey_ Gundre, Ylana's father. Her father--! No wonder her golden loveliness was shadowed. The real wonder was that madness hadn't claimed her. But at least, this way, her sire's death would not be on her conscience. No one could claim that hers had been the hand to slay him. * * * * * Down in the hold, the Forspark lights were blazing. With a tremendous effort, Jarl pulled himself through the port. Half-sliding, half-falling, he skidded down into the dirt and debris; lay there for a moment, resting, dizzy and straining for breath to fill his lungs. Then, lurching to his feet, he stared across at the ring of light; the flagship, ramped amid the forest of towering robots. What turned a man like _rey_ Gundre from the call of duty? Where did it start, that insatiate lust for power and booty? And how, so quickly, had the high commissioner learned the secret of controlling the metal giants? Had _Ktar_ Wassreck talked before he died? Could he have sought to buy his life, at the last, with this final, priceless treasure? But now, to think took too much effort. Now--Jarl swayed--he only knew that he must kill ... that such power as this was too great to be trusted to any man, be he of the Federation or the raiders. Yet how to reach him, there in the ship, while armed crewmen paced to and fro in the ring of light, on guard against the primitives? The primitives.... Jarl leaned against the hull, and laughed his drunken laugh again. The primitives: they held the answer. Shuffling and stumbling, he worked his way through the piles of debris to the charred ruins of the altar platform. On hands and knees, he searched the trompled sand, probing amid the stinking litter. Then, at last, his fingers touched the scorched, stiff corpse of a dead primitive, still sprawled in the dirt where the creature had fallen. Fumbling, he stripped off his own garments; replaced them with the corpse's shoulder-plumes and girdle, ankle- and wrist-bands, sandals. Unclamping the hideous metal mask, he clamped it on his own head ... smeared his body thick with sand and ashes. Then it was done and he was ready, save for a weapon. A weapon.... He frowned. What weapon was there that he could carry past the guards who paced their posts about _rey_ Gundre's ship? Wearily, he sagged back on his haunches and let sand trickle through his fingers while he tried to prod his aching brain to action. The grit piled up in a little heap between his knees, a dusty cone symbolic of this whole thrice-cursed desert world of Womar. It was everywhere, that grit and dust, underfoot and in the air alike. It rasped and smothered, choked and blinded. And--it came to him in a sudden flash--it was the weapon he was seeking! Scooping up the sand, he stuffed it between the girdle and his belly in sifting handfuls, till he could pack in no more.