For as he did so, the disc's Baemae rider shifted weight sharply. With startling suddenness, the saucer tilted to a forty-five degree angle.
Another shift. The disc cartwheeled round in a fast spin that had Craig clinging with teeth and toenails.
Then the strange craft was climbing and spinning at once, faster and faster. Even the Baemae pilot dropped to his knees and gripped the disc's edge.
They cleared the roof ... peeled off in a wide arc that carried them out and away from the building, still climbing.
The guards' shouts welled to a furious chorus of frustration. Craig glimpsed more streaks of flame.
But they burned out far short of their target. The disc wheeled on, the whole of the ancient Baemae quarter spread out below it.
The serf's fingers dug into Craig's shoulder. He was laughing now—a fierce, bubbling chortle of triumphs. "You see, Earthman? These discs will free Lysor of its thrice-cursed barons! With your aid, Craig Nesom—"
Craig started. "You ... know my name—?"
"Did you think I came here to save you by mere chance?" The discman chuckled. "No. I was your contact, to help take you to Tumek. But Zenaor's guardsmen got to you before me. So I stood by and waited, in hopes I could save you."
Craig nodded slowly. "Then you can give me some answers, too—about this whole business."