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As the spaceship vanished into the steamy mists of Eristan II, Trevor Jamieson drew his gun. He felt dizzy, sickened by the way he had been tossed and buffeted for long moments in the furious wind stream of the great ship. But awareness of danger held him tense there in the harness that was attached by cables to the antigravity plate above him. With narrowed eyes, he stared up at the ezwal which was peering down at him over the edge of the still-swaying skyraft.
Its three-in-line eyes, as gray as dully polished steel, gazed at him, unwinking;