w the thing for which he had been watching. There was a
streak of fire along the eastern horizon. The blast of speeding rocket
tubes! A cigar shaped hull of gleaming blue and silver came streaking
across the saffron sky with a trail of smoke behind it. _The Viking_ had
come!

* * * * *

A swelling uproar came from the crowds which began to mill about in
confusion. Lansa had risen to his feet and was peering upward with one
hand raised to shade his eyes. Yellow flames played about the _Viking's_
bow as the reverse rockets checked her momentum. A pair of swooping
dakta veered away from her, then dropped down toward the bait tethered
below. One of them was headed straight for Angus McTavish.

Instantly one of the forward ray-guns on the space-ship glowed into
life, and the winged lizard crumpled in mid-flight. Gerry knew then that
someone on board had been looking down through the powerful viewing
glasses, and had recognized him and Angus. He shouted hoarsely, knowing
he would not be heard but unable to keep silent.

Drums were throbbing a swift alarm, and the milling crowds were in wild
confusion. Companies of the scaly warriors were firing by volley, but
the explosive bullets only flashed harmlessly against the _Viking's_
duralite hull. Some of the heavier gas-guns set on the battlements above
hissed into life then, but even the larger caliber explosives could make
no impression on tempered duralite. With her ray-guns flashing and
ripping black swathes in the scaly ranks below, with her helicopters
spinning to take the strain as the blast of the rockets died away, the
_Viking_ settled rapidly groundward.

"By Lord, Steve came a-fightin'!" McTavish roared.

"Of course, you old goat!" Gerry shouted back, "did you really think I'd
call the ship into a trap? You're as bad as that maniac who calls
himself Lansa. I knew that if I spoke _too_ strongly of what nice
fellows these scaly devils are, Steve would have the sense to know that
I was under pressure and in a trap."

And then came swift disaster! Over the edge of the nearest black and
battlemented wall of Lansa's palace thrust the muzzle of a large caliber
ray-gun. Steve Brent saw it, too, and tried to lift the nose of his ship
to bring his own guns to bear on this new menace, but he was too late.
The muzzle of the ray-gun on the battlements glowed dully, the blast of
the supode-rays struck the row of spinning helicopters on top of the