"His name?"
"Craig Nesom."
Slowly, Zenaor straightened. Cold-eyed, he glanced to the glassite cubicle ... the dead serfman, swallowed up in the pulsing slime-mass of the ourobos. He was hardly aware that Narla was stepping quietly from the laboratory chamber.
Again, the voice from the com-box: "My lord...."
Harsh-voiced, face set, Zenaor threw back his answer: "Let them land." And then, beneath his breath: "But blasting off alive will be another matter!"
CHAPTER II
She was the loveliest creature Craig Nesom had ever seen.
Or perhaps that was only the hunger gnawing in him—the Earth-hunger, the aching loneliness that comes to all men who dare to roam the far void to the stars.
Yet here he stood, on this strange, mediaevalish world of Lysor.