he found himself thinking quickly, desperate. If the giant grabbed him,
grabbed him just once, the fight would be over. The man was twice his
size, twice his weight. Yet he had to do something to help the girl....

The giant came at him. The big arms lifted over the heavy, brutal
face.... And Danny drove under them with the chair-leg, jabbing the tip
of it against the man's enormous middle. Pietro--for such was the man's
name--sagged a few inches, the breath rushing, heavy with garlic, from
his mouth. But still, he got his great hands about Danny's throat and
began to squeeze.

Danny saw the wood rafters, the window, a bargirl standing, mouth open,
watching them, the drunken man and his daughter, then a blurry, watery
confusion as his eyes went dim. He was conscious of swinging the club,
of striking something, of extending the club out as far as it would go
and then slamming it back toward himself, striking something which he
hoped was Pietro's head. He felt his mouth going slack and wondered if
his tongue were hanging out. Exerting all his strength he struck numbly,
mechanically, desperately with the chair-leg.

And slowly, the constriction left his throat. Something struck against
his middle, almost knocking him down. Something pushed against his legs,
backing him against the table. He looked down. His eyes were watery, his
throat burning. The giant Pietro lay, breathing stertorously, at his
feet.

A small hand grabbed his. "Father will come now," a voice said. "I
don't--don't even know who you are, but I want to thank you. I thank you
for myself and the Queen, and God, senor. You better come quickly, with
us. Does it hurt much?"

Danny tried to talk. His voice rasped in his throat. The girl squeezed
his hand and together with her and the drunken man who was her father,
he left the tavern. The giant Pietro was just getting up and shaking his
fist at them slowly....

* * * * *

It was a small top-floor room in an old waterfront building in the
Spanish port of Palos. Or, Danny corrected himself, the Castillian port
of Palos. Because, in this year of our Lord 1492, Spain had barely
become a unified country.

"Are you feeling better, Martin Pinzon?" the beautiful girl asked him.

He had given the name he had heard, Martin Pinzon, as his own. The room
was very hot. The August night outside was hot too and sultry and
starless. The girl's father was resting now, breathing unevenly. T