"Yes; that could be it." The officer swung around. "Gundre will be up in the control section. Let's take this _chitza_ there." * * * * * Taking Jarl's arm, he led him forward, centered amid the little knot of crewmen. Across the spreading ring of light they moved, and up the ramp into _rey_ Gundre's mighty flagship ... through echoing corridors ... in and out of a lift that whisked them a dozen levels higher in as many seconds ... down still another gleaming metal passage, till at last they faced the door of the craft's control section. The officer let go of Jarl and stepped forward; touched the signal button. The intercom plate glowed. _rey_ Gundre's voice blared: "Yes! What is it?" He sounded tense and angry. The _Fantay_ clipped, "Sir, we've got one of the primitives. He came in of his own free will, but we can't understand what he's trying to say. We thought maybe you'd want to put him on the vocodor." "A primitive--!" There was a moment's hesitation. Then: "All right. Just a minute." The intercom plate went blank. Jarl's knees were suddenly weak again. He swayed a little. Already, so soon, he was here. It had been incredibly simple. But the next step-- Abruptly, the door to the control section opened part way. The high commissioner himself looked out. His lean, handsome face was haggard, the dark hair so rumpled that the white blaze was almost lost. His deep-set eyes flicked to Jarl Corvett. Then he snapped, "Two guards will be enough," and drew back a fraction to let them enter. They filed in--first the _Fantay_ officer, then Jarl. The guards brought up the rear. Behind them, _rey_ Gundre closed and locked the door. It was a bare, bleak room--the navigation unit, with its globes and astrocharts and viziscreens. Through a half-open door to the right, Jarl could see the switches and dial-studded panels of the operating cubicle; the empty pilot-chair. Tight-drawn as a _llorin's_ bow-string, he shifted, seeking the spot best suited to his purpose. Wry, mocking words _Ktar_ Wassreck once had spoken rang in his brain: "_You'll live longer if you pick a place to run to before you have to run._" Even now, as he faced certain death, it was good advice. Disregarding the others, he moved almost to the cubicle's doorway. For the first time, then, as he swung round to face his captors, he saw the plate of the long-range viziscreen. Saw it ... rocked ... almost cried out. For there, in stark detail, were the familiar outlines of tiny Ceres: the bare expanse that was Ceresta's sprawling port ... the geometric patterns of the town. And there, too, in the upper scanner, shone clusters of tiny, crawling pinpoints--the mighty Federation fleet hurtling through the void, poising in this moment to lance down upon their distant prey. * * * * *