I smiled.

Mip, on Green Ubar, swept past the large-winged tarn. Second in the race was now the rider who wore the silk of the Silvers. Already he permitted his bird freedom of the reins. I saw there were two tarn heads left on the poles. I did not know the strength of the bird. With a clear strike at the first of the end rings, however, the bird, headstrong, resenting the sudden pressure on the control straps, went wide.

Mip took advantage of this cutting in closely, following now the rider in blue silk.

Menicius of Port Kar, riding for the Yellows, tearing at the control straps of his bird, tarn goad showering sparks to the sand below, tarn screaming, fought his way, birds buffeting, past the Silver trying to regain the center of the rings.

The Blue, leading now, expertly blocked Mip at ring after ring. I noted that the bird ridden by the rider in blue silk was tiring. But yet the race could be won on blocking. Menicius of Port Kar had been slowed by the Silver's attempt to stop him.

Again and again Mip tried to pass above the bird of the Blues, ring after ring, and then, lifting the bird again, he suddenly cut to the low and to the left, executing the dangerous talon pass. The bird of the Blues raked downward, with talons that could have torn Mip from the saddle, but Mip had judged the distance superbly. I heard the rider of the Blues curse and those who favored the Steels leaped roaring to their feet.

"Look," said the crossbowman, who stood near me. He pointed to a spot about a hundred yards away, on a small wall, built itself on the dividing wall, near the pole of the wooden tarn heads.

I cried out with rage.

There I saw a Taurentian, armed with a crossbow, lifting it, preparing to fire as Mip passed through the third of the far end rings. The Taurentian had the stock of the crossbow to his shoulder, waiting.

The crossbowman with me said, "Do not fear." He raised his weapon to his shoulder. Mip was clearing the center ring of the end rings when the heavy leather-wrapped cable of the crossbow sprang forward and the quarrel hissed from the guide.

I watched the dark, swift flight of the quarrel, like a black needle, and saw it drop into the back of the Taurentian, who suddenly stiffened, seeming inches taller, the metal fins of the bolt like a tiny dark triangle in the purple of the cloak, and pitched lifeless from the wall.

Mip cleared the third of the end rings and streaked on.

"An excellent shot," I said.

The crossbowman shrugged, drawing back the heavy cable on the bow.

There was now but one tarn head left on the pole.

The crossbowman fitted another quarrel to his bow and stood as before, examining the crowd.

The crowd roared.

Mip held the lead.

Then the Yellows sprang to their feet in the stands.

Menicius of Port Kar, his tarn young, swift, competitive, was making his move, gaining rapidly.

Mip released the reins. He did not strike Green Ubar with the tarn goad. He shouted to him, crying encouragement, "Old Warrior, fly!" he cried.

I saw Green Ubar begin then to hold the lead, his wings striking with the accelerating, timed frenzy of the racing tarn, each stroke seeming to carry him swifter and farther than the last. Then, to my horror, I saw the wings miss their beat and the bird screamed in pain, and began to turn in the air, Mip spinning with the bird, trying to control it.

Menicius of Port Kar streaked past and as he did so his right hand flew forward and I saw Mip suddenly lose the reins of the tarn and clutch spasmodically at his back, as though trying to reach something. Mip was thrown back in the two thin safety straps of the racing saddle and then sagged in the saddle, leaning to one side.

I clutched the arm of the crossbowman.

The tarn of the Blues, and then of the Silvers, and then of the Reds flashed past the reeling tarn and its rider.

The crossbowman raised his weapon. "Menicius will not live to finish the race," he said.

"He is mine," I said.

Suddenly Green Ubar, in the flash of the wings and the cries of the riders passing him, righted himself and with a cry of rage and pain burst toward the rings, Mip sagging in the saddle.

Then the bird, which had in its time won a thousand races and more, addressed itself to that fierce and familiar path in the Stadium of Tarns.

"Look!" I cried. "Mip lives!"

Mip now hung on the neck of Green Ubar, his body parallel to the saddle, clinging to the bird, his face pressed against it, his lips moving, speaking to it.

And it is hard to say what I then saw.

The crowd roared, the tarns screamed, and Green Ubar, his rider Mip, flew, eyes blazing, for those final moments marvelous and incandescent in his youth, like a bird and rider come from the dreams of old men, as they knew them once, when they too were young. Green Ubar flew. He flew. And what I saw seemed to be a young bird, in the fullness of his strength, at the pitch of his prime and pride, his cunning and swiftness, his fury and power. It was Green Ubar of the legends, Green Ubar as he had been in the stories told by men who had seen him years before, Green Ubar, greatest of the racing tarns, holder of awards, victorious, triumphant.

When the bird came first to the perches of victory there was no sound from the crowd, that wast multitude totally silent.

Second was the startled Menicius of Port Kar, the palm of victory snatched from his grip.

Then all, save perhaps those closest to the noble Ubar of the city, began to cry out and cheer, and pound their fists on their left shoulder.

The bird stood there on the perch, and Mip straightened himself painfully in the saddle.

The bird lifted its head, resplendent, fantastic, and uttered the victory scream of the tarn.

Then it tumbled from the perch into the sand.

I, the crossbowman, and others, raced to the perch.

With my sword I cut Mip free of the safety straps and drew him from the tarn.

I jerked the small knife from his back. It was a killing knife, a legend carved about its handle. "I have sought him. I have found him."

I lifted Mip in my arms. He opened him eyes. "The tarn?" he asked.

"Green Ubar is dead," I told him.

Mip closed his eyes and between the pressed eyelids there were tears.

He stretched out his hand toward the bird and I lifted him, carrying him to the side of the inert, winged beast. He put his arms about the neck of the dead bird, laying his cheek against that fierce, whitish-yellow beak, and he wept. We stood back.

After a time the crossbowman, who stood beside me, spoke to Mip. "It was victory," he said.

Mip only wept. "Green Ubar," he said. "Green Ubar."

"Fetch one of the Caste of Physicians," cried an onlooker.

The crossbowman shook his head negatively.

Mip lay dead across the neck of the bird he had ridden to victory.

"He rode well," I said. "One might have thought him more than a simple Tarn Keeper."

"Long ago," said the crossbowman, "there was a rider of racing tarns. In a given race, attempting the head pass, he misjudged the distance and was struck bodily from the saddle by the high bar of the first of the center side rings. He was dropped broken into the path of following tarns, torn, and fell again to the lower bar of the ring and then to the net. He raced once or twice after that, and then no more. His timing, his judgement were no longer sure. He feared then the rings, the birds. His confidence, his skill, his nerve were gone. He was afraid, deathly afraid, and understandably so. He did not race more."

"Mip?" I asked.

"Yes," said the crossbowman. "It would be well," he said, "if you understand the courage of what he did here today."

"He raced well," I said.

"I watched," said one of the men of the Steels standing nearby. "He did not fear. There was no fear in his handling of the tarn. There was only sureness, and skill, and nerve."