The plate stopped spinning. As if by magic, it hung suspended in the air, swaying gently.
Bukal clambered to his feet, balancing on the polished surface as a bather might upon a surfboard. Tilting skillfully, he sideslipped the strange craft down a fraction lower. "Get on!"
Sucking in a breath, Craig slid aboard.
Bare yards away, the boat beached. Guards swarmed ashore, cursing and shouting.
Nonchalantly, Bukal threw them a salute, and brought the disc round in a lazy, climbing spiral.
Green fire, falling short. Fuming rage, wild curses.
"You see—?" The elation of triumph rang in Bukal's voice. "It's the end of the barons, Earthman! How can any barriers hold back the Baemae, when with discs like this we can sail above them? To the south, there's the whole djevoda range and freedom! Already, we've colonies of our own down there, free colonies, spread out so the barons can't strike at them. We're turning out these discs by hundreds—emptying the cities, stripping the estates to their last serfman—"
Frowning, narrow-eyed, Craig stared down at the panorama spread out below them, then off to the glittering towers of Torneulan.
"Why send for me, then?" he cut in on the other. "Who's Tumek? What made him call for help from the Federation?"
The discman's face sobered. "Why—?" He shrugged. "That I can't tell you; it's still Tumek's secret."