"How does it work, you mean?" The bronzed, stocky Bukal chuckled. "Magnetic waves—you know about them?"
"Yes, after a fashion."
"Then think of them flowing from pole to pole like some great river."
Craig stared. "You mean—these discs of yours ride the current—?"
"As chips ride a stream," the other nodded. "The secret lies in the alloy's basic pattern, its molecular structure. It serves as a filter—a trap that catches enough wave-power to lift and carry."
"And to maneuver—"
"You tilt the disc. That breaks the flow-pattern." Shifting, Craig's rescuer peered out through the brush that fringed the river's edge. He gestured. "When our visitors get closer, I'll show you."
Craig followed the other's movement: saw a boatload of men in guards' regalia cutting swiftly toward the islet from the river's near shore.
"They're quick," he acknowledged. And then, prompting: "You said discs were weapons."