must have been waiting for this message.
Before he had finished there was the thud of a high-velocity slug
hitting flesh and the Disan spun and fell, blood soaking his
shoulder. Brion leaped over him and headed for the ramp.

"The next one is me--hold your fire!" he called.

Both guards must have had their telescopic sights zeroed on the
spot. They let Brion pass, then threw in a hail of semi-automatic
fire that tore chunks from the stone and screamed away in noisy
ricochets. Brion didn't try to see if anyone was braving this hail
of covering fire; he concentrated his energies on making as quick
and erratic a descent as he could. Above the sounds of the firing he
heard the car motor howl as it leaped forward. With their careful
aim spoiled, the gunners switched to full automatic and unleashed
a hailstorm of flying metal that bracketed the top of the tower.

"Cease ... firing!" Brion gasped into the radio as he ran. The
driver was good, and timed his arrival with exactitude. The car
reached the base of the tower at the same instant Brion did, and he
burst through the door while it was still moving. No orders were
necessary. He fell headlong onto a seat as the car swung in a
dust-raising turn and ground into high gear, back to the city.

Reaching over carefully, the tall guard gently extracted a bit of
pointed wood and fluff from a fold of Brion's pants. He cracked open
the car door, and just as delicately threw it out.

"I knew that thing didn't touch you," he said, "since you are still
among the living. They've got a poison on those blowgun darts that
takes all of twelve seconds to work. Lucky."

Lucky! Brion was beginning to realize just how lucky he was to be
out of the trap alive. And with information. Now that he knew more
about the magter, he shuddered at his innocence in walking alone and
unarmed into the tower. Skill had helped him survive--but better
than average luck had been necessary. Curiosity had gotten him in,
brashness and speed had taken him out. He was exhausted, battered
and bloody--but cheerfully happy. The facts about the magter were
arranging themselves into a theory that might explain their attempt
at racial suicide. It just needed a little time to be put into
shape.

A pain cut across his arm and he jumped, startled, pieces of his
thoughts crashing into ruin around him. The gunner had cracked the
first-aid box and was swabbing his arm with antiseptic. The knife
wound was long, but not de