Dariel walked slowly down the corridor, carefully examining his
surroundings:  a large structure constructed of dead vegetation, a
slight rocking motion, a faintly salty smell--a boat?  No, larger.
There were seventy-something life forms in the immediate area.  A ship.
He wondered what level of technology the people possessed.  There was
a magnetic field--did they have compasses?  Sextants?  Star charts for
navigation?  Astrolabs?

     The flow of Power was confused here:  a helter-skelter mish-mash
of lay lines, star fields, god-radiance, and extradimensional sources.
There were rigid patterns holding Power (archtypes?) and idle tendrils
of mental energy (psionics?).  Were there technomages here?  There was
sufficient structure to support them--in fact, almost every Framework
Dariel had ever experienced appeared to exist in this Place.  He
sighed.  He would definitely have to talk to a practitioner or twelve
to work out the best channels for his personal use.

     Actually, now was the perfect time to return and interrogate Amaan;
he probably wouldn't be expecting a confrontation so quickly.  Dariel
frowned thoughtfully.  Who was that man with the sword whose actions had
resulted in his release?  He had forgotten his manners; he hadn't even
offered his thanks.  Come to think of it, if he had correctly evaluated
the magic-tech balance, he had left him at Amaan's mercy...  Dariel
stopped in his tracks and ran back the way he came.

                       *          *          *

     Dariel halted outside Amaan's door.  It was closed again and
warded with a glyph.  Hmm...  The trigger lines ran through the walls,
parallel to the deck.  It looked like a variation of a bucket-
balanced-on-the-door style trap.  Anybody breaking the lines would be
dumped on by whatever forces that dimensional signature contacted.

     Dariel grinned.  Planar thinking, Amaan--there's no way to
extend that pattern to cover your ceiling or floor.  Dariel returned
to the staircase that he had passed earlier.

     He followed the corridors of the ship until he reached the 
crowded mess hall.  The patch of floor that he wanted would be right
over there.  "Excuse me, sir.  Excuse me, madam."  Dariel crawled
under a table surrounded by a variety of oddly garbed and heavily-
armed people.  There was a sudden motion, a loud splintering sound,
and a fist-sized hole in the deck.  Dariel knelt to look into the
hole, and disappeared.

     There was a bellow from below and the hole spouted flames...

--
ADMIN:  My apologies, folks, for disturbing your lunches.

Comments, compliments, and complaints can be conveyed to:
Bernie Hsiung (bshsiung@eecs.umich.edu)
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