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muster tomorrow. Suppose you let us trot around by ourselves, Feenhalt. We won't get into trouble—"
    The Lupan's pointed grin widened as he waved them on. When they passed through a slit in the curtain to the next room Kana commented:
    "I take it you're known here?"
    "Yes. We got Feenhalt out of a hole once. He isn't a bad old Lupan. Now—let's mess."
    They escorted Kana through a series of rooms, each exotic in its furnishings, each bizarrely different, until they came to a chamber which brought a surprised exclamation out of him. For they might have stepped into a section of jungle. Gigantic fern-trees forested the walls and looped long fronds over their heads, but did not exclude a golden light which revealed cushioned benches and curving tables. Among the greenery swooped and fluttered streaks of flaming color which could only be the legendary Krotands of Cephas' inner sea islands. Kana, meeting such travelers' tales in truth, bemusedly allowed his companions to push him down on a bench.
    "Krotands? But how—?"
    Mic's knuckles rapped and drew a metallic answer from the bole of the fern tree immediately behind them. Kana reached out to find that his fingers slid over a solid surface instead of rough bark. They were in a clever illusion.
    "All done with mirrors," Mic assured him solemnly. "Not that it isn't one of the best bits of projecting Slanal ever designed. Feenhalt's got the business head—but it's his boss who thought up this sort of thing. Ha—food."
    Plates arose out of the table top. Warily Kana tasted and then settled down to hearty stoking.
    "It'll be a long time before we get another feed like this," Rey observed. "I heard Fronn's no pleasure planet."
    "Cold to our notion—and the native culture is feudal," Kana supplied.
    " `Police action,' " mused Mic. "Police action doesn't match a feudal government. What is the set-up—kings? Emperors?"
    "Kings—they call them `Gatanus'—ruling small nations. But their heirship is reckoned through the female line. A Gatanu is succeeded by his eldest sister's son, not his own. He is considered closer kin to his mother and sisters than to his father or brothers."
    "You must have studied up on this—"
    "I used a record pak at Prime."
    Rey looked pleased. "You're going to be an asset. Mic, we've got to keep our paws on this one."
    Mic swallowed a heroic bite. "We sure have. Somehow I am visited by a feeling that this jump is not going to be foam-pad riding, and the more we know, the better for us."
    Kana glanced from one to the other, catching the shadow glimpse of trouble. "What's up?"
    Mic shook his head and Rey shrugged. "Blasted if we know. But—well, when you've trotted around the back of beyond and poked into places where a `man' is a mighty weird animal, you get a feeling about things. And we have a feeling about this—"
    "Yorke?"
    The morale of any Horde depended upon the character of its Blademaster. If Yorke could not inspire confidence in those who followed him—
    Mic frowned. "No, it's not Fitch Yorke. By all accounts he's a master to latch to. There have been a lot of the glitter boys beside Hansu to sign up for this jump—you can always tell by that how a Blademaster stacks. It's a feeling—you get it sometimes—a sort of crawling—inside you—"
    "Somebody kicking at your grave mark," Rey contributed.
    Mic's big mouth twisted in a grin aimed at himself. "Regular mist wizards, aren't we? Step right up—read your future for a credit! Fronn isn't going to be any worse than a lot of other places I know. Through? Then let's show our greenie Feenhalt's private rake-off. Only time the old Lupan showed any imagination—And, flame bats, does it ever pay off!"
    Feenhalt's flight of imagination turned out to be a gambling device which enthralled a large selection of Combatants. A pool sunk in the floor of a room was partitioned into sections around a central arena. In each of the small water-filled pens sported a fish about five inches long, two-thirds