The last thing he remembered was the darkness in the hollow below the stone, and the dogs belting overhead, cheated of their quarry - Dekteon, sometimes called Red, the rebellious runaway slave. Why was he lying now, here, in this wood of burning red leaves, with a cold red sunrise in the sky? What sky? And when the cart came so suddenly out of the wood there was something strange about it, too. The horse that drew it had the feet of a bear, and the man who drove it had phosphorescent eyes, or so it seemed to Dekteon. Yet it appeared he was expected. 'Come,' the man called. 'Come, hurry and get in.' Dekteon was afraid. Where would the cart take him? 'You have no other place to go to,' the pale man said. And that was true enough. 'I've nothing to lose,' said Dekteon, and the words seemed ominous. Yet how could he know what worlds there might be to lose - or win?