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of order had quelled the disturbance, Reith had his party collected. The priest said: “You see, my son, the efficacy of prayer. I uttered a humble petition to Bákh, to furnish us a distraction—”
    “Oh, God!” said Reith, who had just counted his party. “Where’s Otto?”
    Mélanie Jussac answered: “The Mr. Schwerin left before Mr. Considine acted the cowpusher. He said he had taken enough pictures here and will meet us at the ship.”
    Reith pressed knuckles to his head. “If that idiot doesn’t get lost, wandering a strange city where he can’t speak the language—well, come on, folks, back to the ship. Keep together, now.”
    Reith glanced back to see the next hunter trotting out on the field, and then his carriage carried him out of sight of the shánenesb. Nobody tried to stop them from leaving. The judge might fume, Reith thought, but the cops were probably glad to see the last of Reith’s party before one of these crazy extra-Krishnans touched off another disturbance.

    ###

    Half a Krishnan hour later, at the pier, Reith’s people got down from their carriages and filed aboard the Sárbez. Reith was paying off the hackmen when another uproar erupted.
    At the base of the pier appeared Otto Schwerin, running. After him came a tall, handsome Krishnan in a silvered breastplate, sword in hand. Behind the pursuer, at a distance, came other armed Krishnans.
    Schwerin pounded out on the pier, his cameras swinging on their straps. “Hilfe!” he gasped, dodging behind Reith. “Save me!” He caught the back of Reith’s clothing.
    “Out of my way!” yelled the armored Krishnan in English.
    The swordsman tried to dodge around Reith to get at Schwerin. Schwerin kept circling, clinging to Reith’s back, so as to keep Reith between himself and the Krishnan. When a lunge by the Krishnan barely missed Reith’s ribs, Reith drew his own sword and knocked the Krishnan’s blade aside.
    “Oh, you want to fight, too?” snarled the Krishnan.
    He aimed a terrific backhanded cut at Reith’s neck. Reith parried with a clang. Handicapped as he was by Schwerin clinging to his back, he beat off, by a hair’s breadth, several thrusts and slashes.
    The other pursuing Krishnans arrived. Two had swords, one a halberd, and one a crossbow. Faced by these odds, Reith backed until he found himself on a seaward corner of the pier. Thence he had no place to go but into the oily, debris-littered water.
    The Krishnan in the silvery cuirass paused in his attack, breathing hard. The arbalester aimed his crossbow at Reith, shouting in Gozashtandou: “Drop that sword!”
    Reith dropped the sword. Before the armored one could renew his assault, Reith cried: “Aren’t you Prince Ferrian?”
    “What if I am?”
    “Then, will Your Altitude kindly tell me what in hell this is about?”
    “This earthman cowering behind you photographed my ship, although you people had been warned not to do so.”
    “Is that so, Otto?” asked Reith.
    “Vell—I—it vass just vun little picture—”
    “Look here, Prince, will it satisfy you if he gives you the film? Then no harm will have been done.”
    Ferrian took his time about answering, while the crossbowman kept his weapon trained on Reith’s midriff. At last the prince said: “I suppose it will, even though I suspect he’s a spy of those damned imperialists at Novorecife. But which of those cameras was he using? No, never mind asking. He would lie about it to save his picture of my ship, so he could sell it to Abreu. Take out the films of all of them.”
    “Donnerwetter! That vill shpoil all the pictures I have took in Reshr—”
    “Sorry about that,” said Reith. “Let’s have ’em, or I’ll turn you over to these guys.”
    Schwerin gave a wail. One by one, his three cameras were opened and the films ripped out. Prince Ferrian sheathed his jewel-hilted sword and held the films up to make sure that all had been thoroughly light-struck. He spoke to his minions, who roughly