The long lash slashed through the air. Almost lazily, it seemed, it drifted. The snapper lifted ... curled ... wrapped round Vydys' slim waist.
She screamed, then.
Too late. Because now Craig was surging back on the whipstock with all his strength, a savage jerk.
The woman lurched forward, across the parapet. Down the steep face she slid, straight into the trench.
Along the rim, tumult erupted. Guards shouted. Serfs raced this way and that. Fire-guns blazed down at the djevoda. A ladder appeared, shoved down from above.
Dropping the whipstock, Craig lunged for the ladder.
A guard was scrambling down it. Catching him from behind, Craig knocked him sprawling. When another head appeared above the parapet, Craig butted low, not slowing.
Blood—blows—violence. A race for the postern. As from afar, Craig caught the echo of Vydys' scream: "The alien! Stop him!"
So she still lived....
More guards. Veering, Craig darted through the nearest door and pounded through a maze of echoing corridors and stairways.