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now. I’ll rendezvous with you tonight at—no, of course I won’t. If they accept me like they’re supposed to, I guess I’ll have to go through the mumbo-jumbo, the all-night watch and the rest of it. You’re on your own, then. I’ll link up after the king-hunt. Don’t do anything rash!”
    And then there was no problem except getting into the fortress, which he managed with a cover story so flimsy he could hardly believe it, though he had been assured beforehand that it would succeed. All he did was to show the guards a little southland trinket and tell them it was a luck-charm he intended to give to Saikmar—and they let him by. Obviously they must all have bet heavily on Saikmar and wanted him to have any luck that was going.
    If the hint about Red Sloin was equally effective—whoever Red Sloin might have been—he was certain of bringing off his gigantic gamble.
    All the time that the argument was raging in the hall, Saikmar was staring in puzzlement toward the intruder. He looked
old.
Old for a contender, anyway. And heavily built, even stocky. It was hard to picture a man like that piloting a glider among the chimneys of the Smoking Hills. Moreover, unless he intended to do as Red Sloin had done in the legend—crash his glider deliberately against the king’s neck—how could he hope to triumph? Saikmar knew very well how slender his own chances were, and he had the double advantage of youthful reflexes and years of daily practice, except in the bitterest month of winter.
    And this Belfeor did not have the air of a man who wanted to die.
    It was altogether absurd, Saikmar concluded. You
had
to be young and agile to kill the king, even when there was only a new and inexperienced one to cope with. All the authorities agreed on that; no champion on record had killed the king more than four years in succession. At twenty-five you were already stiffening up, too slow to match with a lithe male parradile.
    Behind him there was a sudden clamor. Luchan, who had been last year’s contender for Clan Twywit and whose glider had crashed after a blow from the king’s left pinion, leaving him less of a man by one arm and one eye, was on his feet and shouting at Sir Bavis.
    “Your doing!” he barked. “A scheme of yours to keep power in the hands of Clan Parradile!”
    Instantly there was fresh uproar, and the waves of sound beat at Saikmar’s head like fists. Other ready accusers were found from other clans, and slanders were soon being hurled like javelins. At last Saikmar could stand it no longer, and stood up bellowing for silence.
    Because he was the most favored contender, they shamefacedly allowed him to be heard. He did not plan the words; they merely tumbled out of him. He cried, “Has none of you a grain of sense? Have you looked at this man Belfeor? Have you wondered what chance he has against the king? He claims to have come to the city for the first time tbday—no matter how skillful a pilot he may be, what chance do you think he stands among the treacherous up-and down-draughts of the Smoking Hills?”
    His point was beginning to sink in. He saw expressions growing thoughtful on every side.
    “Luchan! Were you Sir Bavis, and had you some dirty scheme to twist the will of the gods, would you pick such a man? I’ve no idea what drives him to make his challenge, but I doubt if he knows what kind of ordeal he’s exposing himself to. I think he must just be gambling foolishly on a chance of power. Well, let him! If he compares himself to Red Sloin, let him! If he’s as good a man as Sloin was, he’ll prove it tomorrow; if not, he’ll meet inglorious death. I say he’s welcome to let the king break his silly neck if that’s what he wants!”
    Breathing hard, Saikmar sat down, vaguely astonished at himself. His mother bent over and whispered some compliment in his ear; he returned only a distracted nod, waiting to see what would happen now.
    “But it’s against all custom …” a worried voice