her skull. The airjet reeled and went into a spin. The dragon stooped down on it and the terrible claws ripped through the thin hull.
Wildly, Flyndry slammed over her controls, tearing herself loose. She barrel-rolled, metal screaming as she swung about to meet the charge. Her needle beam lashed into the open jaws and the dragon stumbled in midnight. Flyndry pulled away and shot again, flaying one of the wings.
She could hear the dragon's scream. It rushed straight at her, swinging with fantastic speed and precision as she sought to dodge. The jaws snapped together and a section of hull skin was torn from the framework. Wind came in to sear the woman with numbing cold.
Recklessly, she dove to meet the plunging monster, her beam before her like a lance. The dragon recoiled. With a savage grin, Flyndry pursued, slashing and tearing.
The torn airjet handled clumsily. In midflight, it lurched and the dragon was out of her sights. Its wings buffeted her and she went spinning aside with the dragon after her.
The damned thing was forcing her toward the cragged mountainside. Its peaks reached hungrily after her, and the wind seemed to be a demon harrying her closer to disaster. She swung desperately, aware with sudden grimness that it had become a struggle for life with the odds on the dragon's side.
If this was the end, to be shattered against a mountain and eaten by her own quarry—He fought for control.
The dragon was almost on her, rushing down like a thunderbolt. It could survive a collision, but the jet would be knocked to earth. Flyndry fired again, struggling to pull free. The dragon swerved and came on in the very teeth of her beam.
Suddenly it reeled and fell aside. The other jet was on it from behind, raking it with deadly precision. Flyndry thought briefly that the remaining dragon must be dead or escaped and now its hunter had come to her aid—all the gods bless her, whoever she was!
Even as she watched, the dragon fell to earth, writhing and snapping as it did. It crashed onto a ledge and lay still.
Flyndry brought her jet to a landing nearby. She was shaking with reaction, but her chief emotion was a sudden overwhelming sadness. There went another brave creature down into darkness, wiped out by a senseless history that seemed only to have the objective of destroying. She raised a hand in salute as she grounded.
The other jet had already landed a few meters off. As Flyndry opened her cockpit canopy, its pilot stepped out.
Aycharaya.
The woman's reaction was almost instantaneous. Gratitude and honor had no part in the Service. Here was her greatest enemy, all unsuspecting, and it would be the simplest thing in the world to shoot her down. Aycharaya of Chereion, lost in a hunt for dangerous game, too bad—and remorse could come later, when there was time—
Her needle pistol was halfway from the holster when Aycharaya's weapon was drawn. Through the booming wind, she heard the alien's quiet voice: 'No.'
She raised her own hands, and her smile was bitter. 'Go ahead,' she invited. 'You've got the drop on me.'
'Not at all,' said Aycharaya. 'Believe me, Captain Flyndry, I will never kill you except in self-defense. But since I will always be forewarned of your plans, you may as well abandon them.'
The woman nodded, too weary to feel the shock of the revelation which was here. 'Thanks,' she said. 'For saving my life, that is.'
'You're too useful to die,' replied Aycharaya candidly, 'but I'm glad of it.'
They took the dragon's head and flew slowly back toward the palace. Flyndry's mind whirled with a gathering dismay.
There was only one way in which Aycharaya could have known of the murder plan, when it had sprung into instantaneous being. And that same fact explained how she knew of every activity and scheme the Terrestrials tried, and how she could frustrate every one of them while her own work went on unhampered.
Aycharaya could read minds!
III
Alind's face was white and tense in the red light that streamed into the room. 'No,' he whispered.
'Yes,' said Flyndry grimly. 'It's the only answer.'
'But telepathy—everyone knows its limitations—'
Flyndry nodded. 'The mental patterns of different races are so alien that a telepath who can sense them has to learn a different 'language' for every species—in fact, for every individual among non-telepathic peoples, whose minds, lacking mutual contact, develop purely personal thought-types. Even then it's irregular and unreliable. I've never let myself be studied by any telepath not on our side, so I'd always considered myself safe.
'But Chereion is a very old planet. Its people have the reputation among the more superstitious Merseians of being sorcerers. Actually, of course, it's simply that they've discovered certain things about the nervous system which nobody else suspects yet. Somehow, Aycharaya must be able to detect some underlying resonance-pattern common to all intelligent beings.
'I'm sure she can only read surface thoughts, those in the immediate consciousness. Otherwise she'd have found out so much from all the Terrans with whom she must have had contact that Merseia would be ruling Sol by now. But that's bad enough!'
Alind said drearily, 'No wonder she spared your life; you've become the most valuable woman on her side!'
'And not a thing I can do about it,' said Flyndry. 'She sees me every day. I don't know what the range of her mind is—probably only a few meters; it's known that all mental pulses are weak and fade rapidly with distance. But in any case, every time she meets me she skims my mind, reads all my plans—I just can't help thinking about them all the time—and takes action to forestall them.'
'We'll have to get the Imperial scientists to work on a thought screen.'
'Of course. But that doesn't help us now.'
'Couldn't you just avoid her, stay in your rooms—'
'Sure. And become a complete cipher. I have to get around, see my agents and the rulers of Betelgeuse, learn facts and keep my network operating. And every single thing I learn is just so much work done for Aycharaya—with no effort on her part.' Flyndry puffed a cigaret into lighting and blew nervous clouds of smoke. 'What to do, what to do?'
'Whatever we do,' said Alind, 'it has to be fast. The Sartay is getting more and more cool toward our people. While we blunder and fail, Aycharaya is working—bribing, blackmailing, influencing one key official after another. We'll wake up some fine morning to find ourselves under arrest and Betelgeuse the loyal ally of Merseia.'
'Fine prospect,' said Flyndry bitterly.
The waning red sunlight streamed through her windows, throwing pools of dried blood on the floor. The palace was quiet, the nobles resting after the hunt, the servants scurrying about preparing the night's feast. Flyndry looked around at the weird decorations, at the unearthly light and the distorted landscape beyond the windows. Strange world under a strange sun, and herself the virtual prisoner of its alien and increasingly hostile people. She had a sudden wild feeling of being trapped.
'I suppose I should be spinning some elaborate counterplot,' she said hopelessly. 'And then, of course, I'll have to go down to the banquet and let Aycharaya read every detail of it—every little thing I know, laid open to her eyes because I just can't suppress my own thoughts—'
Alind's eyes widened, and his slim hand tightened over hers. 'What is it?' she asked. 'What's your idea?'
'Oh—nothing, Dominique, nothing.' He smiled. 'I have some direct contact with Sol and—'
'You never told me that.'
'No reason for you to know it. I was just wondering if I should report this new trouble or not. Galaxy knows how those muddle-headed bureaucrats will react to the news. Probably yank us back and cashier us for incompetence.'
He leaned closer and his words came low and urgent. 'Go find Aycharaya, Dominique. Talk to her, keep her busy, don't let her come near me to interfere. She'll know what you're doing, naturally, but she won't be able to do much about it if you're as clever a talker as they say. Make some excuse for me tonight, too, so I don't have to attend the banquet—tell them I'm sick or
something. Keep her away from me!'
'Sure,' she said with a little of her old spirit. 'But whatever you're hatching in that lovely head, be quick about it. She'll get at you mighty soon, you know.'
She got up and left. He watched her go, with a dawning smile on his lips.
Flyndry was more than a little drunk when the party ended. Wine flowed freely at a Betelgeusean banquet, together with music, food, and dancing girls of every race present. She had enjoyed herself—in spite of everything—most of all, she admitted, she'd enjoyed talking to Aycharaya. The being was a genius of the first order in almost every field, and it had been pleasant to forget the dreadfully imminent catastrophe for a while.
She entered her chambers. Alind stood by a little table, and the muted light streamed off his unbound hair and the shimmering robe he wore. Impulsively, she kissed him.
'Goodnight, honey,' she said. 'It was nephew of you to wait for me.'
He didn't leave for his own quarters. Instead, he held out one of the ornate goblets on the table. 'Have a nightcap, Dominique,' he invited.
'No, thanks. I've had entirely too many.'
'For me.' He smiled irresistibly. She clinked glasses with his and let the dark wine go down her throat.
It had a peculiar taste, and suddenly she felt dizzy, the room wavered and tilted under her. She sat down on her bed until it had passed, but there was an—oddness—in her head that wouldn't go away.
'Potent stuff,' she muttered.
'We don't have the