Biron nodded and set off down the corridor. It was quite empty. He could not walk quickly, since trying to do so made his walk a hobble.

He looked at his watch, then remembered that he had somehow never had the time to adjust it to Rhodian local chronometry. It still ran on Standard Interstellar Time as used aboard ship, where one hundred minutes made an hour and a thousand a day. So the figure 876 which gleamed pinkly on the cool metal face of the watch meant nothing now.

Still, it had to be well into the night, or into the planetary sleeping period, at any rate (supposing that the two did not coincide), as otherwise the halls would not be so empty and the bas-reliefs on the wall would not phosphoresce unwatched. He touched one idly as he passed, a coronation scene, and found it to be two-dimensional. Yet it gave the perfect illusion of standing out from the wall.

It was sufficiently unusual for him to stop momentarily in order to examine the effect. Then he remembered and hurried on.

The emptiness of the corridor struck him as another sign of the decadence of Rhodia. He had grown very conscious of all these symbols of decline now that he had become a rebel. As the center of an independent power, the Palace would always have had its sentries and its quiet wardens of the night.

He consulted Gillbret's crude map and turned to the right, moving up a wide, curving ramp. There might have been processions here once, but nothing of that would be left now.

He leaned against the proper door and touched the photo-signal. The door moved ajar a bit, then opened wide.

"Come in, young man."

It was Artemisia. Biron slipped inside, and the door closed swiftly and silently. He looked at the girl and said nothing. He was gloomily conscious of the fact that his shirt was torn at the shoulder so that one sleeve flapped loosely, that his clothes were grimy and his face welted. He remembered the shoe he was still carrying, dropped it and wriggled his foot into it.

Then he said, "Mind if. I sit down?"

She followed him to the chair, and stood before him, a little annoyed. "What happened? What's wrong with your foot?"

"I hurt it," he said shortly. "Are you ready to leave?"

She brightened. "You'll take us, then?"

But Biron was in no mood to be sweet about it. His foot still twinged and he cradled it. He said, "Look, get me out to a ship. I'm leaving this damn planet. If you want to come along, I'll take you."

She frowned. "You might be more pleasant about it. Were you in a fight?"

"Yes, I was. With your father's guards, who wanted to arrest me for treason. So much for my Sanctuary Right."

"Oh! I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. It's no wonder the Tyranni can lord it over fifty worlds with a handful of men. We help them. Men like your father would do anything to keep in power; they would forget the basic duties of a simple gentleman-Oh, never mind!"

"I said I was sorry, Lord Rancher." She used the title with a cold pride. "Please don't set yourself up as judge of my father. You don't know all the facts."

"I'm not interested in discussing it. We'll have to leave in a hurry, before more of your father's precious guards come. Well, I don't mean to hurt your feelings. It's all right." Biron's surliness canceled out any meaning to his apology, but, damn it, he had never been hit by a neuronic whip before and it wasn't fun. And, by Space, they had owed him Sanctuary. At least that much.

Artemisia felt angry. Not at her father, of course, but at the stupid young man. He was so young. Practically a child, she decided, scarcely older than herself, if that.

The communicator sounded and she said sharply, "Please wait a minute and we'll go."

It was Gillbret's voice, sounding faintly. "Arta? All right at your end?"

"He's here," she whispered back.

"All right. Don't say anything. Just listen. Don't leave your room. Keep him there. There's going to be a search of the Palace, which there's no way of stopping. I'll try to think of something, but, meanwhile, don't move." He waited for no reply. Contact was broken.

"So that's that," said Biron. He had heard also. "Shall I stay and get you into trouble, or shall I go out and give myself up? There's no reason to expect Sanctuary anywhere On Rhodia, I suppose."

She faced him in a rage, crying in a choked whisper, "Oh, shut up, you big, ugly fool."

They glared at each other. Biron's feelings were hurt. In a way, he was trying to help her too. There was no reason for her to be insulting.

She said, "I'm sorry," and looked away.

"That's all right," he said coldly, without meaning it. "You're entitled to your opinion."

"You don't have to say the things you do about my father. You don't know what being Director is like. He's working for his people, whatever you may think."

"Oh, sure. He has to sell me to the Tyranni for the sake of the people. That makes sense."

"In a way, it does. He has to show them he's loyal. Otherwise, they might depose him and take over the direct rule of Rhodia. Would that be better?"

"If a nobleman can't find Sanctuary-"

"Oh, you think only of yourself. That's what's wrong with you."

"I don't think it's particularly selfish not to want to die. At least for nothing. I've got some fighting to do before I go. My father fought them." He knew he was beginning to sound melodramatic, but she affected him that way.

She said, "And what good did it do your father?"

"None, I suppose. He was killed."

Artemisia felt unhappy. "I keep saying I'm sorry, and this time I really mean it. I'm all upset." Then, in defense, "I'm in trouble, too, you know."

Biron remembered. "I know. All right, let's start all over." He tried to smile. His foot was feeling better anyway.

She said, in an attempt at lightness, "You're not really ugly."

Biron felt foolish. "Oh well-"

Then he stopped, and Artemisia's hand flew to her mouth. Abruptly, their heads turned to the door.

There was the sudden, soft sound of many ordered feet on the semi-elastic plastic mosaic that floored the corridor outside. Most passed by, but there was a faint, disciplined heel-clicking just outside the door, and the night signal purred.

Gillbret had to work quickly. First, he had to hide his visisonor. For the first time he wished he had a better hiding place. Damn Hinrik for making up his mind so quickly this once, for not waiting till morning. He had to get away; he might never have another chance.

Then he called the captain of the guard. He couldn't very well neglect a little matter of two unconscious guards and an escaped prisoner.

The captain of the guard was grim about it. He had the two unconscious men cleared out, and then faced Gillbret.

"My lord, I am not quite clear from your message exactly what happened," he said.

"Just what you see," said Gillbret. 'They came to make their arrest, and the young man did not submit. He is gone, Space knows where."

"That is of little moment, my lord," said the captain. "The Palace is honored tonight with the presence of a personage, so it is well guarded despite the hour. He cannot get out and we will draw the net through the interior. But how did he escape? My men were armed. He was not."

"He fought like a tiger. From that chair, behind which I hid-"

"I am sorry, my lord, that you did not think to aid my men against an accused traitor."

Gillbret looked scornful. "What an amusing thought, Captain. When your men, wit{l doubled advantage in numbers and weapons, need help from myself, it is time you recruited yourself other men."

"Very well! We will search the Palace, find him, and see if he can repeat the performance."

"I shall accompany you, Captain."

It was the captain 's turn to raise his eyebrows. He said, "I would not advise it, my lord. There would be some danger."