"A few." The discman straightened. "But that can wait till we have landed...."
Skillfully, he guided the disc off, away from the city; brought it down on a tiny, brush-clotted river island. Stepping clear, he helped Craig up and gripped his hand. "They call me Bukal."
"And you know me already."
They both laughed. Then the discman's broad, bronzed face sobered. "You seek explanations...."
"At least, they'd help me," Craig nodded, grinning wryly.
"Then they must be brief. That Zenaor's a devil. He'll trace us in minutes, on a daylight landing." Bukal kicked the disc. "Do you know what this is?"
Craig eyed it curiously. Flat, polished, of plastic or metal, it measured a good six feet across. Beyond that, he could tell little, save that it had neither moving parts nor control equipment, so far as he could see.
"It flies, and it saved my neck," he said finally. "That's all I know about it."
Again, Bukal laughed. A grim laugh without mirth. "Then I'll tell you rover. This thing is a weapon—a weapon of peace, one that can't kill; yet it's going to break the cursed Kukzubas barons' power forever."
"But how—?" Craig groped for words.