Tumek, genius of the Baemae ... the man who had devised the flying disc and harnessed the power that surged through his world's magnetic waves.
Yet even Tumek had cringed before Zenaor's sadistic schemings and pleaded across a million drals of void for Federation aid.
Now, on Bukal's word, he lay in hiding here in the shop of his fellow caster Notal, waiting for the Federation's envoy to arrive.
At least, Craig Nesom hoped so.
Pausing in the shadows across from Notal's shop, he hesitated for a moment, studying the darkened front with its display of busts that peered out, wan and ghost-like, in the blue night-sun Roh's dim light.
Somewhere at the back of the shop, a gleam of yellow flickered.
So there was really someone there. Taut-nerved, Craig started forward.
Only then, off to his right, metal clanged on metal.
Craig froze again.
More sounds crept to him ... sounds of shuffling feet, of men in movement.