uld you do, clasp us to your bosom, smother us in your
idiotic music? Or have you gone on to greater things?"

Ravdin's face flushed hotly. "Much greater things," he snapped.

Frankle sat down slowly. "No doubt," he said. "Now understand me
clearly. Very soon you will be killed. How quickly or slowly you die
will depend largely upon the civility of your tongues. A civil tongue
answers questions with the right answers. That is my definition of a
civil tongue." He sat back coldly. "Now, shall we commence asking
questions?"

Dana stepped forward suddenly, her cheeks flushed. "We don't have the
words to express ourselves," she said softly. "We can't tell you in
words what we have to say, but music is a language even you can
understand. We can tell you what we want in music."

Frankle scowled. He knew about the magic of this music, he had heard of
the witchcraft these weak chicken-people could weave, of their strange,
magic power to steal strong men's minds from them and make them like
children before wolves. But he had never heard this music with his own
ears. He looked at them, his eyes strangely bright. "You know I cannot
listen to your music. It is forbidden, even you should know that. How
dare you propose--"

"But this is different music." Dana's eyes widened, and she threw an
excited glance at her husband. "Our music is beautiful, wonderful to
hear. If you could only hear it--"

"Never." The man hesitated. "Your music is forbidden, poisonous."

Her smile was like sweet wine, a smile that worked into the Hunter's
mind like a gentle, lazy drug. "But who is to permit or forbid? After
all, you are the leader here, and forbidden pleasures are all the
sweeter."

Frankle's eyes were on hers, fascinated. Slowly, with a graceful
movement, she drew the gleaming thought-sensitive stone from her
clothing. It glowed in the room with a pearly luminescence, and she saw
the man's eyes turning to it, drawn as if by magic. Then he looked away,
and a cruel smile curled his lips. He motioned toward the stone. "All
right," he said mockingly. "Do your worst. Show me your precious music."

Like a tinkle of glass breaking in a well, the stone flashed its fiery
light in the room. Little swirls of music seemed to swell from it,
blossoming in the silence. Frankle tensed, a chill running up his spine,
his eyes drawn back to the gleaming jewel. Suddenly, the music filled
the room, rising sweetly like an overpowering wave, filling his min