Thomas was still rubbing his sore throat as he returned to the bridge, to find Saturn sitting in the central command chair, the Coronet of Farspeaking still on his head.

     "They got him," he said in satisfaction, removing the coronet. "That fool Walton bungled things in Kronosia, but they got him as he emerged from the Tara cubicle. Good job I sent word to expect him. Now we'll learn a thing or two."

     The wizard paused, and Thomas could see the inner conflict going on behind his face. Whether to return to Lexandria to assist in the interrogation, or remain with the ship to investigate the ring. Either could be the breakthrough they'd been hoping for; the key to defeating the felisian saboteurs once and for all.

     "Seskip knows his job," he muttered to himself eventually. "He won't appreciate my breathing over his shoulder all the time."

     "At least the Orb wasn't damaged," said Thomas, his voice still a little husky from the bruising to his throat. "How long would it have taken to install a new one?"

     "Not long," replied the older wizard. "The danger was that it might have been shattered without our noticing. By all accounts, the skydeath isn't a pleasant way to die."

     You're welcome, thought Thomas bitterly. Would it kill you to thank me for saving all our lives? On the other hand, though, there was something strangely complimentary about Saturn's cold attitude towards him, the way he just took him for granted. He remembered someone saying that you weren't a real wizard until other wizards started treating you like one, and he realised with a thrill that the casual disregard with which Saturn was now treating him was exactly the same way that he treated Pondar Walton and most other senior wizards.

     It made a stark contrast to the alternating commanding overbearance and forced friendliness with which he treated junior wizards and apprentices. Somewhere along the line Thomas had been promoted to the status of near equal, and he had a pretty good idea that it had happened during the flight of the Hummingbird, although he couldn't remember any specific incident that might have been responsible. Certainly not his rescue of Gunther and Karog, which had shown him up as a world class coward.

     The oval, airlock style door opened and Rin Wellin stepped through, giving Thomas a nod of recognition before turning to Saturn. "The depressurisation of the cavern is complete," he said, "and the moon trogs report that the outer hull is bearing up to the pressure exactly as calculated. We are ready to lift."

     "Very good," said Saturn as the shae man took the seat next to him. A moment later the door opened again to admit Timothy Birch, carefully pushing a light, metal frame wheelchair containing an elderly moon trog whose entire body was swathed in layers of clothing except for his face, his hands and his feet, which looked as dextrous and capable of fine grasping as if they were another pair of hands. His eyes were watery and bloodshot under their drooping lids, and his loose, sagging skin was blotchy with broken blood vessels.

     "Hi," said the cleric in delight upon seeing a friendly face. "Looks like most of the old Hummingbird crew are getting together again for this little trip. Have you met Prup Chull, Dallakast of the moon trogs aboard this ship? Prup, this is Thomas Gown. A wizard and a friend of mine."

     "At your service and your family's," said the moon trog in a faintly wheezing voice, raising a stubby, wrinkled hand on the end of a thin, fragile looking arm. Thomas took it gently and gave it a careful shake, afraid of breaking his bones.

     "It's always a pleasure to meet one of your race," he replied. "Your engineering accomplishments leave me breathless with admiration."

     The moon trog beamed with pleasure even as he dropped his hand back into his lap. Even this tiny effort against full Tharian gravity had exhausted him. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to talk during this voyage," he said. "If I may, I'll stop by your cabin sometime."

     "Perhaps it would be better if I came to you," suggested Thomas, however. "I can handle your environment better than you can handle ours."

     Prup Chull smiled gratefully. "You are one of the chosen of the Gods. I go off duty at four after noon. I'll be eagerly awaiting your arrival." He twisted his neck around to speak to Timothy. "And now, if you please, perhaps you could push me to my station."

     The cleric parked the wheelchair next to the four padded command chairs, fixing it in place with latches bolted to the floor so it wouldn't roll about. Then he sat in the chair beside it. Thomas remained standing for a few moments longer, feeling out of place, fearing a rebuke if he took a seat on the ship's bridge. Maybe I should just slip out quietly while no-one's looking, he thought nervously. I could go find Matt and the others, stay with them until I'm wanted. Or maybe I should just go to my cabin...

     "Master Gown, are you going to take a seat?" said Saturn, his single eye creased a little in amusement. "The seat here is yours."

     "Yes, Master," said Thomas gratefully, sitting next to Timothy. The cleric leaned over to whisper in his ear, "...and the last shall be first," then grinned and winked at him. Thomas just stared back in bafflement.

     Saturn gave a series of commands to the scrying mirror so that it once again showed an external view of the Ship of Space sitting in its cradle, with the hanger doors closed above it. The vegetation covering the walls, floor and ceiling had turned a sad grey, visibly dead, and the corpses of birds and various small animals were settling slowly to the ground. It made Thomas sad to see it. Not because he himself cared a great deal about the deaths of numerous small animals but because he knew Lirenna would be sad if she were there to see it. It was as if he had a small Lirenna in his head, perfect in every detail. A part of him forever.

     Saturn put the Coronet of Farspeaking on his head and gave instructions to the ground crew, speaking to them aloud so that the rest of the bridge crew would be able to hear. "Open hanger doors if you please, Mister Young."

     Nothing happened for a few moments, but then the giant cat flap in the ceiling of the cavern began to slowly open, the rectangular door dropping on one side, let down by a pair of disturbingly thin chains that disappeared into holes in the side of the shaft above. Thomas wondered what mechanism was involved, and his imagination conjured up the image of half a dozen burly men slowing the rotation of a giant wheel, although the truth was probably a little more elaborate.

     As the door opened further, he saw the soft, rubbery seal around its rim that had kept it airtight while the force of atmospheric pressure in the cavern had been pushing it closed. If all went to plan that seal would never be needed again and the whole door would probably be removed before long so that the moon trogs could put the metal of which it was composed to other uses.

     After a minute or so the door was hanging vertically downwards, very slowly swinging just a little to and fro, and the chains were hanging slackly. The shaft gaped above them, and the sharp, steady light of stars could be seen far, far above.

     "Even with their burner cables, it must have taken months for the moon trogs to excavate that tunnel," said Timothy in wonder.

     "It was dug by wizards, wielding Wands of Disintegration," answered Saturn. "First we dug a few yards up into the ceiling and installed the airtight door. Then wizards wearing Necklaces of Vacuum Breathing dug a narrow shaft the rest of the way up. The shaft was then widened to its present size." He activated the Coronet of Farspeaking again. "Disengage access tube."

     The flexible tube connecting the Ship of Space to the entrance of the cavern detached itself from the ship's airlock and pulled away, folding up like an accordion as it did so. The air it contained ruffled the dead and frozen vegetation as it escaped, breaking off fragile twigs and fronds that flew around the cavern in slow, shallow parabolas. Prup Chull scowled at the waste of valuable air, but they hadn't yet thought of a way to prevent it. At least they would lose only a tubeful of air every time the ship lifted, instead of a whole cavernful.

     "Disengage locking clamps," ordered Saturn.

     A heavy clunk sounded through the ship as the spring loaded clamps holding the ship securely in its cradle were withdrawn. Many of the moon trog engineers responsible for the ship's construction hadn't thought they were necessary, as even in Kronos's feeble gravity the weight of the Ship of Space was enough to hold it securely in its cradle, but the human engineers were glad they were there because of the alarming ease with which heavy objects could be moved around with a gentle shove. It was hard for them to grasp the fact that, even here on Kronos, the Ship of Space weighed many tons and would crush anyone it landed on.

     "Locking clamps disengaged," said the harbourmaster, his telepathically transmitted voice audible only to Saturn. "You are free to lift."

     The wizard nodded in acknowledgement, force of habit. "Orbmaster," he said, smiling to himself as he savoured the moment. "Take us up."