agonizedly and went to his knees. And another, a Terran, swept past him, lunging savagely, raining blow on blow so furiously that Moljar countered only with superhuman effort. He retreated warily before the cursing, sweating, yammering warriors, coolly parrying thrusts and strokes and watching for his chances to kill. When possible he kept articles of furniture between him and his attackers, while his sword circled, fluid light.

They were dying one by one. Moljar sensed something wrong. Why? Surely Alhone had seen enough of this final exhibition. Soon it would be too much. Already only two of her Guards remained. And they were wary, not aggressive, playing for time. They were waiting for Alhone's order to employ their energy weapons. But as he charged in, flailing, slashing, she was withholding that order. Why?

Moljar parried one wild catman's blade easily and, on the rebound, felt his sword crunch, saw the catman fall to the side with his neck cut half through. But move though he might, he was too late to defend himself completely against the second and remaining Guard. He parried slightly, the sword struck a glancing blow across his head, and bit deep into his shoulder. A red mist gathered over his eyes. He lifted his blade like heavy metal, very slowly it seemed, saw it sink as slowly into the Terran's skull. It stuck there. Moljar, through a welter of sweat and blood, tried to withdraw it as the dead man sank down to his knees. But his weight pulled the sword, gently, it seemed, from Moljar's nerveless fingers.

He turned and lurched toward the Matrix. The scientists were standing in shocked frozen stances. The filaments about Mahra's body were still cold. Her strangely bright eyes remained fixed on Alhone's. Moljar staggered around, shaking his head, fighting the whirling darkness that threatened to choke out the light.

The Princess Alhone's eyes were wide, staring, as though hypnotized. Her body was leaning forward in a taut arc. Her hands were spread outward as though attempting to ward off some invisible power. Her mouth was open, twisting, but only faint unintelligent gibberish spattered out. But there was still a mad fanatic fire as she sprang at him, her taloned paws outspread, slashing at his face. He scooped up a long sword as she screamed.

"The Matrix! Turn it on and go. Send the girl to hell alone!"

He swung her arms aside, agony lancing his bleeding shoulder. As she twisted off balance, he wrapped one arm about her, and swung her off her feet, just 

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