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wincing and lifting a hand to his throbbing shoulder. He was still cold and shaky. But three against one wasn’t too bad, provided his luck held.
    The pressure on his mind was giving him a headache. He shut his eyes and began doing calculations. When the chance came he was going to have to shoot out of here by the seat of his pants. If he were too far off, he could launch himself past the safety margin of orbital approach and end up in the pull of that damned black hole. At least this ship was a corvette, known for maneuverability and quickness. He’d always wanted to have a try at one.
    He opened one eye and thought about his chances of reaching one of the weapons lockers where strifers would be stored. No good.
    “There! You see!” shouted a guard. “It is working perfectly. A three-pronged attack, just as the elders planned.”
    Saar glanced at Asan. “Lli sees Tlar shame this day. Did you really expect us to save our strike until the Tlar’jen were on the march?”
    Asan frowned, wishing he wore his mask. Saar barked and reached into his pocket.
    “A wager, Vliin. Two food pouches to—”
    It was time. Asan slammed his hands down on the controls, and the Spitfire lifted in a quick spin. The jolt of takeoff threw the three Bban’n to the deck, and Asan gave them no time to recover as he canted the ship to a forty-five-degree angle and sent it screaming into the sky. They tore through atmosphere, and shuddering g-lurch held them pinned in place.
    Asan grimaced against the agony in his shoulder and blinked off dancing little black spots. He fumbled for web harness and strapped himself in. During that moment of inattention, Saar climbed to his knees and lifted the fire-rod, but Asan tilted the ship in the opposite direction, knocking the pon flat again.
    “If you kill me now, you will all die!” he warned them.
    The sound barrier bucked the ship, and they lifted with a new ease that set his boards blinking above nominals. His hands flew over the controls, setting in course coordinates without benefit of the astrogation computer. It was foolhardy, but he had no time to be sure.
    The viewscreen blanked, then the auto-set recovered and Asan had a glimpse of Ruantl curving small and dark beneath a wisp of atmosphere as they reached space. The mental attack ceased with the distance, and Asan signed in relief.
    “By’hia,” said Saar, kneeling shakily there before the screen. He had lost his mask and his weapon, but at the moment he looked as though he did not care. He lifted a hand to mouth and forehead. “ Lea’dl , have mercy upon us.”
    A shrill keening came from one of the guards. Saar stepped over the body of the other and struck him. “ Chi’ka , fool!”
    But the noise grew louder. The guard staggered up, his mask gone, his yellow eyes glowing in terror. “ Ny! Ny! We are in the hand of demons.” Spreading out his arms, he rushed at Asan, who tensed.
    “Saar, stop him!”
    The fire-rod spat blue death, and the guard crumpled just short of the console. Asan and Saar stared at each other. Then Saar thrust his fire-rod through his belt.
    “For this moment, I am in thy hands, leiil,” he said. For the first time his voice held respectful inflections.
    Asan showed him one palm, then returned his attention to his instrumentation, slowing the craft’s velocity by careful degrees. And now he did take the time to double-check himself with the computer. He found himself off by a dangerous margin, made corrections, and eased the ship down into a low, stable orbit.
    When he switched to automatics and sagged back in his seat, Saar rose to his feet and came forward.
    “The legends say thou are a god. I do not believe in legends since I have been released from the oppression of Anthi. Now, I believe again. What is the will of Asan?”
    It was tempting to yank the Spitfire from orbit and send her out into deep space. But just as he had fought to keep this little ship, so would he fight to keep Ruantl. He