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Ryson shook his head dolefully. It was now almost inconceivable that Glorious Old Triceratops was not the copper-skinned grandee who had come to Stohlson's Redemption twenty-two years earlier in the guise of the Immaculate Ultim of Aberdown, bringing death and catastrophe to the Tandryl-Kundorrs, the man who had visited Qymset under the same name some four hundred years earlier. If only he were somewhere here on his estate instead of the other side of the world . . . but . . . Could Ryson conceivably hope to kill one of the twelve rulers of Earth, of the entire universe, and make good his escape? There had to be a way.