During all his life Farree had chosen to do the prudent thing and withdraw from danger. The uncasing of his wings but a short span ago had given him self confidence to be sure, but to face up to an enemy infinitely larger and more muscular than himself, an enemy fighting on his home territory who might perhaps call on any manner of forces– Only this time all the common sense had been shaken out of his trapped body. He could summon no strength to lunge against Vorlund, somehow to shoulder the tall, battle-trained spacer out of the way, and win to Togger's aid. He was still dumbly in the toils of that mysterious force which the whistle had laid upon him. Dumbly, then, he allowed himself to be shifted between Vorlund and Maelen till the three of them were again handfast with the listening Zacanthan.

"We are under a silence?" That was the magician who asked. Some sibilance of his trade speech betrayed him.

"Do we look to be brainless muck worms? Yes, we are under silence, only one begins to wonder—"

The murmur broke for a second time and they could catch intelligible speech. "Yes—wonder—there is nothing can come upon us here—or is that also false? What traveler can ever weigh the marvelous strengths and defenses of a new world? Be silent!"

Straightway there came something new to plague Farree. The force which held him was sloughing away as if it were a covering which he could rend from his body. That which had struck him at the whistling broke—was partly gone. On his wrist the yellow light of the scarf bands was shading down the scale of color, green-brown-red, and then a red as true as would come with new shed blood. In his mind there was a queer beat as if some drum or rattle was pounding out a code, while the now scarlet band flickered.

Vorlund shifted his grip again, and still Farree was without the necessary energy to pull free. He saw by the mingled light furnished by the band on his wrist and the single dim lamp a pulsating to match the beats. At first he thought that he was swinging from side to side in the same pattern and then he saw that Maelen, Zoror, and Vorlund himself were all one with him and that pounding. Vorlund's lips moved; he might have been speaking, but the drum beat in Farree's head had deadened his ears to outer sound—only the pattern of the drum remained.

It was the Zacanthan who made the first move. Catching at the purse and sheath at his belt he brought forth not one of the knives forbidden to off-worlders but rather what looked to be a curved and shining talon twice the size of any of those which sprouted from his fingers.

The silver length of it was patterned by bits of blue which sparkled like jewels. Stepping away from the wall Zoror used that talon as if it were indeed knife, slicing it back and forth through the air as he might engage some invisible enemy. The talon weapon began to change color, those bits of blue inlay shading into darker and more violent shades just as the scarves had done. It was difficult for any but his own species to read any expression on the Zacanthan's scaled face; however, one could not mistake his eyes—not dark with anger but bright with interest, as if some new bit of learning had been drawn to his attention and he was about to pluck all or any secrets out of this encounter.

Maelen held her own hands out, palms down, her fingers quirking up one by one until they stretched to their farthest reach in fan shape. She was staring at each finger in turn, as if assuring herself that she still possessed them all.

There was moisture on Farree's wrist. He glanced down. Drops were bubbling out of the double band. He might have just taken it out of a stream or pool. Save what fell was not the clearness of true water, rather it was first a pinkish froth and then took on more substance, becoming the same shade of red as the band now was. Blood! Surely that was blood such as might ooze through the dressing on a wound. It fell, but not to the floor, for it diffused again into small balls of mist before it reached even the level of Farree's knees.

It was as if that moisture filled the air it had disappeared into, for it seemed now as if he could actually taste blood, smell it.

Now the color was draining out of the band. It became wrinkled as ashy spots grew on it. Then both layers of it thinned, flaked away as might ashes from a burning. Only on his flesh there remained a brand, red as a burn. That which had held him prisoner was gone and Farree's medley of thoughts could be sorted out into messages again.

Togger! He quested outward.

"Bad—" He managed to pick up that, but it came very faint and low.

What followed then they all heard clearly, having no need this time for any disc or connected line of search: A cry which was not of the mind but rather had broken from a throat of flesh.

"Ahhhhh!"

Togger! Not that cry from him. Rather another mind send: A sensation of being held tightly, of being flung through the air—

"Fool!" They could hear the snap of that voice without any aid. "Spaquet!" There was a blurred mind image of a pale animal bulk plodding into a thick soup of mud.

"The little one"—Zoror's hiss of whisper came as he moved to restore the silver talon into his belt pouch—"he has struck one—I believe he who was the spider of this net weaving. What weapon has Togger, little brother?"

"Poison—on his foreclaws." There must be more than a lethal dose available now, for Farree had never tried to milk away thin yellow beads of moisture which Russtif had always forced from the claws when he had kept Togger captive.

"Soooo." The Zacanthan crossed the floor with noiseless tread and Vorlund slipped aside to let Zoror reach the outer door. "This one so assaulted will die?" He had put out a hand and drew Farree away from the spacer and closer to him.

The youth was rubbing his hands together, wriggling his shoulders, reversing as best he could the spreading of his wings, back into a burden the cloak would cover once more. "Will this one die?" repeated the Zacanthan. Farree shook his head. He felt as tired as if he had marched all day through a Nexus swamp. It took much of the will left in him even to stand and then turn his mind to what might be happening in the other room.

"I do not know," he answered. "There is a poison—but to some life forms it might not be deadly. There is so much difference—" He let that explanation die away while he rubbed his hand across the brand left upon his other wrist. "What may promise death to one kind, may be no more than the bites of a Lugk fly to another. Togger!" He went from words to mind call.

There was an answer, but it was very hazy and he could not understand. At least that meant that the smux was still alive.

"Let him lie," again the voice speaking clearly instead of in a deep rumble. Whatever had cloaked those within these walls must have gone. "He was without a useful thought, a helpful bit of action. Now—get you down to that hole where he burrowed and bring me back—" Not words but rather a series of clicks followed.

"They may be searching, High One." That voice verged on a whine and was certainly from the magician.

"If so it is better that you not be caught, is that not the truth? Remember, we have our own methods for resisting capture—the body can fall into the hands of those who would stand against us—but the mind, ah, now, that is a very different thing. You have seen what you have seen of that, is that not so? A certain ship owner from the Circle—"

"High One, no—I will go. But what of that thing which has done this to Guide? Should we not seek it out and—"

"And die? You seem doubly eager to bring down upon you evils this night, Ioque. Almost one could believe that you yourself had hints of how one might safely use that crawler."