"But—"
A sudden echo of distant voices cut short Craig's answer. The girl went rigid.
"Quick!" Her voice hissed taut, now; ragged. "This may be your only chance to contact Tumek—if it is not too late already!"
After that there was no more time for words; only a hurrying through the silent passage, till at last a ramp loomed before them and they came out into the day once more.
Here the tower loomed distant and forbidding, a stark shaft lancing up like a spear-head into the emerald sky. Here were the slums, the quarters of the Baemae, with noise and filth and sweat-drenched bodies that stank rank enough to turn the stomach of any Kukzubas baron.
Wordless, still gripping his hand, the girl who was Zenaor's daughter led Craig into a low, cramped wineshop. Dirt scuffed up under his feet. Boisterous voices rang out in shouts and curses, and the stench of stale liquor hung all-pervasive. A couple reeled past, clinging to each other for support. The woman's brief halter hung loose. She was laughing drunkenly, and her near-naked body shone slick with sweat. Beyond her, a man prodded a huge, weird, spider-like lifeform into a shuffling dance atop a table.
Craig's jaw tightened. What was he doing in a place like this? How foolish could even a Federation agent get?
But the girl's grey eyes still pleaded. Tense, raw-nerved, Craig, followed her through the crowd and din to a table in the wineshop's farthest corner.
A gaunt, stoop-shouldered oldster paused beside them. He wore the tabard of the serf-class. "Yes?"