Across the street, the last of the raiders inside the shop paused by the display window. Deliberately, he picked up one bust after another and smashed it. The last he hurled through the window itself, then swaggered out to join the others. Their laughter echoed raucously.
Then someone barked a command. The laughter ceased. With chill efficiency a group fell in, formed a double rank facing Notal's shop.
Another command. Two of the guardsmen caught the prisoner by the arms and jerked him forward, slamming him back hard against one of the uprights of the shop-front. Then, quickly, they stepped aside.
Again, the harsh voice of command.
The double rank raised weapons.
Inside the shop across the street, Craig went rigid.
Out there, mere feet away, stood the man who'd brought him to this planet, the Baemae genius, Tumek.
Tumek, the one man who could tell him the things he so needed to know—the baron's plans; the dreams and schemes and power of Zenaor.
Only Tumek stood before a firing squad. Ten seconds more and he'd be dead.
Craig acted by instinct, then; not logic.