IV

It did not kill him at once, but stood staring down at him, and as

the slow seconds ticked by and Jason was still alive he forced himself

to consider this menace that appeared from the blackness.

"_K'e vi stas el...?_" the creature said, and for the first time Jason

realized it was human. The meaning of the question picked at the edge

of his exhausted brain, he felt he could almost understand it, though

he had never heard the language before. He tried to answer but there

was only a hoarse gargle from his throat.

"_Ven k'n torcoy--r'pidu!_"

More lights sprang from the darkness inland and with them the sound of

running feet. As they came closer Jason had a clearer look at the man

above him and could understand why he had mistaken him for some

inhuman creature. His limbs were completely wrapped in lengths of

stained leather, his chest and body protected by thick and overlapping

leather plates covered with blood-red designs. Over his head was

fitted the cochlea shaped shell of some animal, spiraling to a point

in front: two small openings had been drilled in it for eye holes.

Great, finger-long teeth had been set in the lower edge of the shell

to heighten the already fearsome appearance. The only thing at all

human about the creature was the matted and filthy beard that trickled

out of the shell below the teeth. There were too many other details

for Jason to absorb so suddenly; something bulky slung behind one

shoulder, dark objects at the waist, a heavy club reached and prodded

Jason in the ribs, but he was too close to unconsciousness to resist.

A guttural command halted the torch-bearers a full five meters from

the spot where Jason lay. He wondered vaguely why the armored man had

not let them approach closer since the light from their torches barely

reached this far: everything on this planet seemed inexplicable. For a

few moments Jason must have lost consciousness because when he looked

again the torch was stuck in the sand at his side and the armored man

had one of Jason's boots off and was pulling at the other. Jason could

only writhe feebly but not prevent the theft, for some reason he could

not force his body to follow his will. His sense of time seemed to

have altered as well and though every second dragged heavily by events

occurred with startling rapidity.

The boots were gone now and the man fumbled at Jason's clothes,

stopping every few seconds to glance up at the row of torch-bearers.

The magnetic seals were alien to him, the sharp teeth sewn into the

leather over his knuckles dug into Jason's flesh as he struggled to

open the seals or to tear the resistant metalcloth. He was growling

with impatience when he accidentally touched the release button on the

medikit and it dropped into his hand. The shining gadget seemed to

please him, but when one of the sharp needles slipped through his

thick hand-coverings and stabbed him he howled with rage, throwing the

machine down, and grinding it into a splintered ruin in the sand. The

loss of this irreplaceable device goaded Jason into motion, he sat up

and was trying to reach the medikit when unconsciousness surged over

him.

* * * * *

Sometime before dawn the pain in his head drove him reluctantly back

to awareness. There were some foul-smelling hides draped over him that

retained a little of his body heat. He pulled away the stifling fold

that covered his face and stared up at the stars, cold points of light

that glittered in the frigid night. The air was a stimulant and he

sucked deep gasps of it that burned his throat but seemed to clear his

thoughts. For the first time he realized that his disorientation had

been caused by that crack on the head he had received when the ship

crashed; his exploring fingers found a swollen rawness on his skull.

He must have a brain concussion, that would explain his earlier

inability to move or think straight. The cold air was numbing his face

and he willingly pulled the hairy skin back over his head.

He wondered what had happened to Mikah Samon after the local thug in

the horror outfit had bashed him with the club. This was a messy and

unexpected end for the man after he had managed to survive the crash

of the ship. Jason had no special affection for the under-nourished

zealot, but he did owe him a life. Mikah had saved him after the

crash, only to be murdered himself by this local assassin. Jason made

a mental note to kill the man just as soon as he was physically up to

it, at the same time he was a little astonished at his reflexive

acceptance of the need for this blood-thirsty atonement of a life for

a life. Apparently his long stay on Pyrrus had trodden down his normal

dislike for killing except in self-defense and from what he had seen

so far of this world the Pyrran training would certainly be most

useful. The sky showed gray through a tear in the hide and he pushed

it back to look at the dawn.

Mikah Samon lay next to him his head projecting from a covering fur.

He hair was matted and caked with dark blood, but he was still

breathing.

"Harder to kill than I thought," Jason grunted as he levered himself

painfully up onto one elbow and took a good look at this world where

his spaceship sabotage had landed them.

It was a grim desert, lumped with huddled bodies like the aftermath of

a battle at world's-end. A few of them were stumbling to their feet,

holding their skins around them, the only signs of life in that

immense waste of gritty sand. On one side a ridge of dunes cut off

sight of the sea, but he could hear the dull boom of waves on the

shore. White frost rimed the ground and the chill wind made his eyes

blink and water. On the top of the dunes a remembered figure suddenly

appeared, the armored man, doing something with what appeared to be

lengths of rope; there was metallic tinkling, suddenly cut off. Mikah

Samon groaned and stirred.

"How do you feel," Jason asked. "Those are two of the finest

blood-shot eyeballs I have ever seen."

"Where am I?"

"Now that is a bright and original question--I didn't pick you for the

type who watched historical spaceopera on the TV. I have no idea where

we are--but I can give you a brief synopsis of how we arrived here, if

you are up to it."

"I remember we swam ashore, then something evil came from the

darkness, like a demon from hell. We fought...."

"And he bashed in your head, one quick blow and that was about all the

fight there was. I had a better look at your demon, though I was in no

better condition to fight him than you were. He's a man dressed in a

weird outfit out of an addict's nightmare and appears to be the boss

of this crew of rugged campers. Other than that I have little idea of

what is going on--except that he stole my boots and I'm going to get

then back if I have to kill him for them."

"Do not lust after material things," Mikah intoned seriously. "And do

not talk of killing a man for material gain. You are evil, Jason,

and.... My boots are gone--and my clothes, too!"

Mikah had thrown back his covering skins and made this startling

discovery. "Belial!" he roared. "Asmodeus, Abaddon, Apollyon and

Baal-zebub!"

"Very nice," Jason said admiringly, "you really have been studying up

on your demonology. Were you just listing them--or calling on them for

aid?"

"Silence, blasphemer! I have been robbed!" He rose to his feet and the

wind whistling around his almost-bare body quickly gave his skin a

light touch of blue. "I am going to find the evil creature that did

this and force him to return what is mine."

Mikah turned to leave but Jason reached out and grabbed his ankle with

a wrestling grip, twisted it and brought the man thudding to the

ground. The fall dazed him and Jason pulled the skins back over the

raw-boned form.

"We're even," Jason said. "You saved my life last night, just now I

saved yours. You're bare-handed and wounded--while the old man of the

mountain up there is a walking armory, and anyone with the personality

to wear that kind of an outfit will kill you as easily as he picks his

teeth. So take it easy and try to avoid trouble. There's a way out of

this mess--there's a way out of _every_ mess if you look for it--and

I'm going to find it. In fact I'm going to take a walk right now and

start my research. Agreed?"

A groan was his only answer since Mikah was unconscious again, fresh

blood seeping from his injured scalp. Jason stood and wrapped his

hides about his body as some protection from the wind, tying the loose

ends together. Then he kicked through the sand until he found a smooth

rock that would fit inside his fist with just the end protruding, and

thus armed made his way out through the stirring forms of the

sleepers.

* * * * *

Mikah was conscious again when Jason returned, and the sun was well

above the horizon. The people were all awake now, a shuffling,

scratching herd of about thirty men, women and children. They were

identical in their filth and crude skin wrappings, milling about with

a random motion or sitting blankly on the ground. They showed no

interest at all in the two strangers. Jason handed a tarred leather

cup to Mikah and squatted next to him.

"Drink that. It's water, the only thing that anyone here had to drink.

I didn't find any food." He still had the stone in his hand and while

he talked he rubbed it on the sand: the end was moist and red and some

long hairs were stuck in it.

"I took a good look around this camp, and there's very little more

than you can see from here. Just this crowd of broken down types, a

few bundles rolled in hide, and some of them are carrying skin water

bottles. They have a simple me-stronger pecking order so I pecked a

bit and we can drink. Food comes next."

"Who are they? What are we doing?" Mikah asked, mumbling a little,

obviously still suffering the after-effects of the blow. Jason looked

at the contused skull, and decided not to touch it. The wound had bled

freely and clotted. Washing it off with the highly dubious water would

accomplish little and might add infection to their other troubles.

"I'm only sure of one thing," Jason said. "They're slaves. I don't

know why they are here, what they are doing or where they are going,

but their status is painfully clear--ours, too. Old Nasty up there on

the hill is the boss. The rest of us are slaves."

"Slaves!" Mikah snorted, the word penetrating through the pain in his

head. "It is abominable. The slaves must be freed."

"No lectures please, and try to be realistic--even if it hurts. There

are only two slaves that need freeing here, you and I. These people

seem nicely adjusted to the _status quo_ and I see no reason to change

it. I'm not starting any abolitionist campaigns until I can see my way

clearly out of this mess, and I probably won't start any then either.

This planet has been going on a long time without me, and will

probably keep rolling along once I'm gone."

"Coward! You must fight for the Truth and the Truth will make you

free."

"I can hear those capital letters again," Jason groaned. "The only

thing right now that is going to make me free is me. Which may be bad

poetry, but is still the truth. The situation here is rough but not

unbeatable--so listen and learn. The boss, his name is Ch'aka in case

you care, seems to have gone off on a hunt of some kind. He's not far

away and will be back soon, so I'll try and give you the entire setup

quickly.

"I thought I recognized the language, and I was right. It's a corrupt

form of Esperanto, the language all the Terido worlds speak. This

altered language plus the fact that these people live about one step

above the stone-age culture is pretty sure evidence that they are cut

off from any contact with the rest of the galaxy, though I hope not.

There may be a trading base somewhere on the planet, and if there is

we'll find it later. We have enough other things to worry about right

now, but at least we can speak the language. These people have

contracted and lost a lot of sounds and even introduced a glottal

stop, something that _no_ language needs, but with a little effort the

meaning can still be made out."

"I do not speak Esperanto."

"Then learn it. It's easy enough even in this jumbled form. And shut

up and listen. These locals are born and bred slaves and it is all

they know. There is a little squabbling in the ranks with the bigger

ones pushing the work on the weak ones when Ch'aka isn't looking, but

I have that situation well in hand. Ch'aka is our big problem, and we

have to find out a lot more things before we can tackle him. He is

boss, fighter, father, provider and destiny for this mob, and he seems

to know his job. So try to be a good slave for a while...."

"Slave! I?" Mikah arched his back and tried to rise. Jason pushed him

back to the ground--harder than was necessary.

"Yes, you--and me, too. That is the only way we are going to survive

in this arrangement. Do what everyone else does, obey orders, and you

stand a good chance of staying alive until we can find a way out of

this tangle."

* * * * *

Mikah's answer was drowned out in a roar from the dunes as Ch'aka

returned. The slaves climbed quickly to their feet, grabbing up their

bundles, and began to form a single widespaced line. Jason helped

Mikah to stand and wrap strips of skin around his feet then supported

most of his weight as they stumbled to a place in the open formation.

Once they were all in position Ch'aka kicked the nearest one and they

began walking slowly forward looking carefully at the ground as they

went. Jason had no idea of the significance of the action, but as long

as he and Mikah weren't bothered it didn't matter: he had enough work

cut out for him just to keep the wounded man on his feet. Somehow

Mikah managed to dredge up enough strength to keep going.

One of the slaves pointed down and shouted and the line stopped. He

was too far away for Jason to make out the cause of the excitement,

but the man bent over and scratched a hole with a short length of

pointed wood. In a few seconds he dug up something round and not quite

the size of his hand. He raised it over his head and brought the thing

to Ch'aka at a shambling run. The slavemaster took it and bit off a

chunk, and when the man who had found it turned away he gave him a

lusty kick. The line moved forward again.

Two more of the mysterious objects were found, both of which Ch'aka

ate as well. Only when his immediate hunger was satisfied did he make

any attempt to be the good provider. When the next one was found he

called over a slave and threw the object into a crudely woven basket

he was carrying on his back. After this the basket-toting slave walked

directly in front of Ch'aka who was carefully watchful that every one

of the things that was dug up went into the basket. Jason wondered

what they were--and they were edible, too, an angry rumbling in his

stomach reminded him.

The slave next in line to Jason shouted and pointed to the sand. Jason

let Mikah sink to a sitting position when they stopped and watched

with interest as the slave attacked the ground with his piece of wood,

scratching around a tiny sprig of green that projected from the desert

sand. His burrowings uncovered a wrinkled gray object from which the

green leaves were growing, a root or tuber of some kind. It appeared

as edible as a piece of stone to Jason, but obviously not to the slave

who drooled heavily and actually had the temerity to sniff the root.

Ch'aka howled with anger at this and when the slave had dropped the

root into the basket with the others he received a kick so strong that

he had to limp back painfully to his position in the line.

Soon after this Ch'aka called a halt and the tattered slaves huddled

around while he poked through the basket. He called them over one at a

time and gave them one or more of the roots according to some merit

system of his own. The basket was almost empty when he poked his club

at Jason.

"_K'e nam h'vas vi?_" he asked.

"_Mia namo estas Jason, mia amiko estas Mikah._"

Jason answered in correct Esperanto that Ch'aka seemed to understand

well enough, because he grunted and dug through the contents of the

basket. His masked face stared at them and Jason could feel the impact

of the unseen watching eyes. The club pointed again.

"Where you come from? That you ship that burn, sink?"

"That was our ship. We come from far away."

"From other side of ocean?" This was apparently the largest distance

the slaver could imagine.

"From the other side of the ocean, correct." Jason was in no mood to

deliver a lecture on astronomy. "When do we eat?"

"You a rich man in your country, got a ship, got shoes. Now I got your

shoes. You a slave here. My slave. You both my slaves."

"I'm your slave, I'm your slave," Jason said resignedly. "But even

slaves have to eat. Where's the food?"

Ch'aka grubbed around in the basket until he found a tiny and withered

root which he broke in half and threw onto the sand in front of Jason.

"Work hard you get more."

Jason picked up the pieces and brushed away as much of the dirt as he

could. He handed one to Mikah and took a tentative bite out of the

other one: it was gritty with sand and tasted like slightly rancid

wax. It took a distinct effort to eat the repulsive thing but he did.

Without a doubt it was food, no matter how unwholesome, and would do

until something better came along.

"What did you talk about?" Mikah asked, grinding his own portion

between his teeth.

"Just swapping lies. He thinks we're his slaves and I agreed. But it's

just temporary--" Jason added as anger colored Mikah's face and he

started to climb to his feet. Jason pulled him back down. "This is a

strange planet, you're injured, we have no food or water, and no idea

at all how to survive in this place. The only thing we can do to stay

alive is to go along with what Old Ugly there says. If he wants to

call us slaves, fine--we're slaves."

"Better to die free than to live in chains!"

"Will you stop the nonsense. Better to live in chains and learn how to

get rid of them. That way you end up alive-free rather than dead-free,

a much more attractive state. Now shut up and eat. We can't do

anything until you are out of the walking wounded class."

* * * * *

For the rest of the day the line of walkers plodded across the sand

and in addition to helping Mikah, Jason found two of the _krenoj_, the

edible roots. They stopped before dusk and dropped gratefully to the

sand. When the food was divided they received a slightly larger

portion, as evidence perhaps of Jason's attention to the work. Both

men were exhausted and fell asleep as soon as it was dark.

During the following morning they had their first break from the

walking routine. Their foodsearching always paralleled the unseen sea,

and one slave walked the crest of the dunes that hid the water from

sight. He must have seen something of interest because he leaped down

from the mound and waved both arms wildly. Ch'aka ran heavily to the

dunes and talked with the scout, then booted the man from his

presence.

Jason watched with growing interest as he unwrapped the bulky package

slung from his back and disclosed an efficient looking crossbow,

cocking it by winding on a built-in crank. This complicated and deadly

piece of machinery seemed very much out of place with the primitive

slave-holding society, and Jason wished that he could get a better

look at the device. Ch'aka fumbled a quarrel from another pouch and

fitted it to the bow. The slaves sat silently on the sand while their

master stalked along the base of the dunes, then wormed his way over

them and out of sight, creeping silently on his stomach. A few minutes

later there was a scream of pain from behind the dunes and all the

slaves jumped to their feet and raced to see. Jason left Mikah where

he lay and was in the first rank of observers that broke over the

hillocks and onto the shore.

They stopped at the usual distance and shouted compliments about the

quality of the shot and what a mighty hunter Ch'aka was. Jason had to

admit there was a certain truth in the claims. A large, furred

amphibian lay at the water's edge, the fletched end of the crossbow

bolt projecting from its thick neck and a thin stream of blood running

down to mix with the surging waves.

"Meat! Meat today!"

"Ch'aka kills the _rosmaro_! Ch'aka is wonderful!"

"Hail, Ch'aka, great provider," Jason shouted to get into the swing of

things. "When do we eat?"

The master ignored his slaves, sitting heavily on the dune until he

regained his breath after the stalk. Then after cocking the crossbow

again he stalked over to the beast and with his knife cut out the

quarrel, notching it against the bowstring still dripping with blood.

"Get wood for fire," he commanded. "You, Opisweni, you use the knife."

Shuffling backwards Ch'aka sat down on a hillock and pointed the

crossbow at the slave who approached the kill. Ch'aka had left his

knife in the animal and Opisweni pulled it free and began to

methodically flay and butcher the beast. All the time he worked he

carefully kept his back turned to Ch'aka and the aimed bow.

"A trusting soul, our slave-driver," Jason mumbled to himself as he

joined the others in searching the shore for driftwood. Ch'aka had all

the weapons as well as a constant fear of assassination. If Opisweni

tried to use the knife for anything other than the intended piece of

work, he would get the crossbow quarrel in the back of his head. Very

efficient.

Enough driftwood was found to make a sizable fire, and when Jason

returned with his contribution the _rosmaro_ had been hacked into

large chunks. Ch'aka kicked his slaves away from the heap of wood and

produced a small device from another of his sacks. Interested, Jason

pushed as close as he dared, into the front rank of the watching

circle. Though he had never seen one of them before, the operation of

the firemaker was obvious to him. A spring-loaded arm drove a fragment

of stone against a piece of steel, sparks flew out and were caught in

a cup of tinder, where Ch'aka blew on them until they burst into

flame.

Where had the firelighter and the crossbow come from? They were

evidence of a higher level of culture than that possessed by these

slave-holding nomads. This was the first bit of evidence that Jason

had seen that there might be more to the cultural life of this planet

than they had seen since their landing. Later, while they were gorging

themselves on the seared meat, he drew Mikah aside and pointed this

out.

[Illustration]

"There's hope yet. These illiterate thugs never manufactured that

crossbow or firelighter. We must find out where they came from and see

about getting there ourselves. I had a quick look at the quarrel when

Ch'aka pulled it out, and I'll swear that it was turned from steel."

"This has significance?" Mikah asked, puzzled.

"It means an industrial society, and possible interstellar contact."

"Then we must ask Ch'aka where he obtained them and leave at once.

There will be authorities, we will contact them, explain the

situation, obtain transportation to Cassylia. I will not place you

under arrest again until that time."

"How considerate of you," Jason said, lifting one eyebrow. Mikah was

absolutely impossible, and Jason probed at his moral armor to see if

there were any weak spots. "Won't you feel guilty about bringing me

back to get killed? After all we are companions in trouble--and I did

save your life."

[Illustration: Ijale]

"I will grieve, Jason. I can see that though you are evil you are not

completely evil, and given the right training could be fitted for a

useful place in society. But my personal grief must not be allowed to

alter events: you forget that you committed a crime and must pay the

penalty."

Ch'aka belched cavernously inside his shell-helmet and howled at his

slaves.

"Enough eating, you pigs. You get fat. Wrap the meat and carry it, we

have light yet to look for _krenoj_. Move!"

* * * * *

Once more the line was formed and began its slow pace across the

desert. More of the edible roots were found, and once they stopped

briefly to fill the water bags at a spring that bubbled up out of the

sand. The sun dropped towards the horizon and what little warmth it

possessed was absorbed by a bank of clouds. Jason looked around and

shivered--then noticed the line of dots moving on the horizon. He

nudged Mikah who still leaned heavily on him.

"Looks like company coming. I wonder where they fit into the

program?"

Pain had blurred Mikah's attention and he took no notice and,

surprisingly enough, neither did any of the other slaves nor Ch'aka.

The dots expanded and became another row of marchers, apparently

absorbed in the same task as Jason's group. They plodded forward,

making a slow examination of the sand, followed behind by the solitary

figure of their master. The two lines slowly approached each other,

paralleling the shore.

Near the dunes was a crude mound of stones and the line of walking

slaves stopped as soon as they reached it, dropping with satisfied

grunts onto the sand. The cairn was obviously a border marker and

Ch'aka walked to it and rested his foot on one of the stones, watching

while the other line of slaves approached. They, too, stopped at the

cairn and settled to the ground: both groups stared with dull-eyed

lack of interest and only the slave-masters showed any animation. The

other master stopped a good ten paces before he reached Ch'aka and

waved an evil looking stone hammer over his head.

"Hate you, Ch'aka!" he roared.

"Hate you, Fasimba!" boomed back the answer.

The exchange was as formal as a _pas de deux_ and just about as

warlike. Both men shook their weapons and shouted a few insults, then

settled down to a quiet conversation. Fasimba was garbed in the same

type of hideous and fear-inspiring outfit as Ch'aka, differing only in

unimportant details. Instead of a conch, his head was encased in the

skull of one of the amphibious _rosmaroj_, brightened up with some

extra tusks and horns. The differences between the two men were all

minor, and mostly a matter of decoration or variation of weapon

design. They were obviously slave masters and equals.

"Killed a _rosmaro_ today, second time in ten days," Ch'aka said.

"You got a good piece coast. Plenty _rosmaroj_. Where the two slaves

you owe me?"

"I owe you two slaves?"

"You owe me two slaves, don't play like stupid. I got the iron arrows

for you from the D'zertanoj, one slave you paid with died. You still

owe other one."

"I got two slaves for you. I got two slaves more I pulled out of the

ocean."

"You got a good piece coast."

Ch'aka walked down his line of slaves until he came to the over-bold

one he had half-crippled with a kick the day before. Pulling him to

his feet he booted him towards the other mob.

"Here's a good one," he said, delivering the goods with a last parting

kick.

"Look skinny. Not too good."

"No, all muscles. Works hard. Doesn't eat much."

"You're a liar!"

"Hate you, Fasimba!"

"Hate you, Ch'aka! Where's the other one?"

"Got a good one. Stranger from the ocean. He can tell you funny

stories, work hard."

Jason turned in time to avoid the full force of the kick, but it was

still strong enough to knock him sprawling. Before he could get up

Ch'aka had clutched Mikah Samon by the arm and dragged him across the

invisible line to the other group of slaves. Fasimba stalked over to

examine him, prodding him with a spiked toe.

"Don't look good. Big hole on the head."

"He works hard," Ch'aka said. "Hole almost healed. He very strong."

"You give me new one if he dies?" Fasimba asked doubtfully.

"I'll give you. Hate you, Fasimba!"

"Hate you, Ch'aka."

The slave herds were prodded to their feet and moved back the way they

had come, and Jason shouted after Ch'aka.

"Wait! Don't sell my friend. We work better together, you can get rid

of someone else...."

The slaves gaped at this sudden outburst and Ch'aka wheeled raising

his club.

"You shut up. You're a slave. You tell me once more to do what and I

kill you."

Jason shut up since it was very obvious that this was the only thing

he could do. He had a few qualms about Mikah's possible fate: if he

survived the wound he was certainly not the type to bow to the

inevitabilities of slave-holding life. Yet Jason had done his best to

save him and that was that. Now Jason would think about Jason for a

while.

* * * * *

They made a brief march before dark, apparently just until the other

slaves were out of sight, then stopped for the night. Jason settled

himself into the lee of a mound that broke the force of the wind a bit

and unwrapped a piece of scorched meat he had salvaged from the

earlier feast. It was tough and oily but far superior to the barely

edible _krenoj_ that made up the greater part of the native diet. He

chewed noisily on the bone and watched while one of the other slaves

sidled over towards him.

"Give me some your meat?" the slave asked in a whining voice, and only

when she talked did Jason realize that this was a girl; all the slaves

were alike in their matted hair and skin wrappings. He ripped off a

chunk of meat.

"Here. Sit down and eat it. What's your name?" In exchange for his

generosity he intended to get some information from his captive

audience.

"Ijale." She tore at the meat, held tightly in one fist, while the

index finger of her free hand scratched for enemies in her tangled

hair.

"Where do you come from? Did you always live here--like this?" How do

you ask a slave if she has always been a slave?

"Not here. I come from Bul'wajo first, then Fasimba, now I belong to

Ch'aka."

"What or who is Bul'wajo? Someone like our boss Ch'aka?" She nodded,

gnawing at the meat. "And the D'zertanoj that Fasimba gets his arrows

from--who are they?"

"You don't know much," she said, finishing the meat and licking the

grease from her fingers.

"I know enough to have meat when you don't have any--so don't abuse my

hospitality. Who are the D'zertanoj?"

"Everyone knows who they are." She shrugged with incomprehension and

looked for a soft spot in the sand to sit down. "They live in the

desert. They go around in _caroj_. They stink. They have many nice

things. One of them gave me my best thing. If I show it to you, you

won't take it?"

"No, I won't touch it. But I would like to see anything they have

made. Here, here's some more meat. Now let me see your best thing."

Ijale rooted in her skins for a hidden pocket and dragged out

something that she concealed in her clenched fist. She held it out

proudly and opened it and there was enough light left for Jason to

make out the rough form of a red glass bead.

"Isn't this so very nice?" she asked.

"Very nice," Jason agreed, and for an instant felt a touch of real

sorrow when he looked at the pathetic bauble. This girl's ancestors

had come to this planet in spaceships with a knowledge of the most

advanced sciences. Cut off, their children had degenerated into this,

barely conscious slaves, who could pride a worthless piece of glass

above all things.

"I like you. I'll show you my best thing again."

"I like you, too. Good night."

V

Ijale stayed near Jason the next day, and took the next station in

line when the endless _krenoj_ hunt began. Whenever it was possible he

questioned her and before noon had extracted all of her meager

knowledge of affairs beyond the barren coastal plain where they lived.

The ocean was a mystery that produced edible animals, fish and an

occasional human corpse. Ships could be seen from time to time

offshore but nothing was known about them. On the other flank the

territory was bounded by desert even more inhospitable than the one in

which they scratched out their existence, a waste of lifeless sand,

habitable only by the D'zertanoj and their mysterious _caroj_. These

last could be animals--or mechanical transportation of some kind,

either was possible from Ijale's vague description. Ocean, coast and

desert, these made up all of her world and she could conceive of

nothing that might exist beyond.

Jason knew there was more, the crossbow was proof enough of that, and

he had every intention of finding out where it came from. In order to

do that he was going to have to change his slave status when the

proper time came. He was developing a certain facility in dodging

Ch'aka's heavy boot, the work was never hard and there was ample food.

Being a slave left him with no responsibilities other than obeying

orders and he had ample opportunity to discover what he could about

this planet, so that when he finally did leave he would be as well

prepared as was possible.

Later in the day another column of marching slaves was sighted in the

distance, on a course paralleling their own, and Jason expected a

repeat performance of the previous day's meeting. He was agreeably

surprised that it was not. The sight of the others threw Ch'aka into

an immediate rage that sent his slaves rushing for safety in all

directions. By leaping into the air, howling with anger and beating

his club against his thick leather armor he managed to work himself

into quite a state before starting off on a slogging run. Jason,

followed close behind him, greatly interested by this new turn of

affairs. Ahead of them the other slaves scattered and from their midst

burst another armed and armored figure. They churned towards each

other at top speed and Jason hoped for a shattering crash when they

met. However they slowed before they hit and began circling each

other, spitting curses.

"Hate you, M'shika!"

"Hate you, Ch'aka!"

The words were the same, but shouted with fierce meaning, with no

touch of formality this time.

"Kill you, M'shika! You coming again on my part of the ground with

your carrion-meat slaves!"

"You lie, Ch'aka--this ground mine from way back."

"I kill you way back!"

Ch'aka leaped in as he screamed the words and swung a roundhouse blow

with his club that would have broken the other man in two if it had

connected. But M'shika was expecting this and fell back, swinging a

counter-blow with his own club that Ch'aka easily avoided. There

followed a quick exchange of club-work that did little more than fan

the air, until suddenly both men were locked together and the fight

began in earnest. They rolled together on the ground grunting

savagely, tearing at each other. The heavy clubs were of no use this

close and were dropped in favor of knives and knees: Jason could

understand now why Ch'aka had the long tusks strapped to his kneecaps.

It was a no-holds-barred fight and each man was trying as hard as

possible to kill his opponent. The leather armor made this difficult

and the struggle continued, littering the sand with broken off animal

teeth, discarded weapons and other debris. It looked like it would be

called a draw when both men separated for a breather, but they dived

right back in again.

* * * * *

It was Ch'aka who broke the stalemate when he plunged his dagger into

the ground and on the next roll caught the handle in his mouth.

Holding his opponent's arms in both his hands he plunged his head down

and managed to find a weak spot in the other's armor: M'shika howled

and pulled free and when he climbed to his feet blood was running down

his arm and dripping from his fingertips. Ch'aka jumped after him but

the wounded man grabbed up his club in time to ward off the charge.

Stumbling backward he managed to pick up most of his discarded weapons

with his wounded arm and beat a hasty retreat. Ch'aka ran after him a

short way, shouting praise of his own strength and abilities and of

his opponent's cowardice. Jason saw a short, sharp horn from some sea

animal lying in the churned up sand and quickly picked it up before

Ch'aka turned back.

Once his enemy had been chased out of sight Ch'aka carefully searched

the battleground and scavenged anything of military value. Though

there was still some hours of daylight left he signaled a halt and

distributed the evening ration of _krenoj_. Jason sat and chewed his

portion reflectively while Ijale leaned against his side, her shoulder

moving rhythmically as she scratched some hidden mite. Lice were

inescapable, they hid in the crevices of the badly cured hides and

emerged with clicking jaws whenever the warmth of human flesh came

near. Jason had his quota of the pests and found his scratching

keeping time with hers. This syncopation of scratch triggered the

anger that had been building within him, slow and unnoticed.

"I'm serving notice," he said, jumping to his feet. "I'm through with

this slave business. Which way is the nearest spot in the desert where

I can find the D'zertanoj?"

"Over there, a two-day walk. How are you going to kill Ch'aka?"

"I'm not going to kill Ch'aka, I'm just leaving. I've enjoyed his

hospitality and his boot long enough and feel like striking out for

myself."

"You can't do that," she gasped. "You will be killed."

"Ch'aka can't very well kill me if I'm not here."

"Everybody will kill you. That is the law. Runaway slaves are always

killed."

Jason sat down again and cracked another chunk from his _krenoj_ and

ruminated over it. "You've talked me into staying a while. But I have

no particular desire now to kill Ch'aka, even though he did steal my

boots. And I don't see how killing him will help me any."

"You are stupid. After you kill Ch'aka you'll be the new Ch'aka. Then

you can do what you want."

Of course. Now that he had been told, the social setup appeared

obvious. Because he had seen slaves and slave-holders, Jason had held

the mistaken notion that they were different classes of society, when

in reality there was only one class, what might be called the

dog-eat-dog class. He should have been aware of this when he had seen

how careful Ch'aka was to never allow anyone within striking distance

of him, and how he vanished each night to some hidden spot. This was

free enterprise with a vengeance, carried to its absolute extreme with

every man out for himself, every other man's hand turned against him,

and your station in life determined by the strength of your arm and

the speed of your reflexes. Anyone who stayed alone placed himself

outside this society and was therefore an enemy of it and sure to be

killed on sight. All of which added up to the fact that he had to kill

Ch'aka if he wanted to get ahead. He still had no desire to do it, but

he had to.

* * * * *

That night he watched Ch'aka when he slipped away from the others and

Jason made a careful note of the direction that he took. Of course the

slave master would circle about before he concealed himself, but with

a little luck Jason would find him. And kill him. He had no special

love of midnight assassination, and until landing on this planet had

always believed that killing a sleeping man was a cowardly way to

terminate another's existence. But special conditions demand special

solutions, and he was no match for the heavily armored man in open

combat, therefore the assassin's knife. Or rather sharpened horn. He

managed to doze fitfully until some time after midnight, then slipped

silently from under his skin coverings. Silently he skirted the

sleepers and crept into the darkness between the dunes.

Finding Ch'aka in the wilderness of the desert night was not easy, yet

Jason persisted. He made careful sweeps in wider and wider arcs,

working his way out from the sleeping slaves. There were gullies and

shadowed ravines and all of them had to be searched with utmost care.

The slave master was sleeping in one of them and would be alert for

any sound. The fact that he had also made special precautions to guard

against assassination was only apparent to Jason after he heard the

bell ring. It was a tiny sound, barely detectable, but he froze

instantly. There was a thin strand pressing against his arm, and when

he drew back carefully the bell sounded again. He cursed silently for

his stupidity, only remembering now about the bells he had heard from

Ch'aka's sleeping site. The slaver must surround himself every night

with a network of string that would sound alarm bells if anyone

attempted to approach in the dark. Slowly and soundlessly Jason drew

back deeper into the gully.

With a thud of rushing feet Ch'aka appeared, swinging his club around

his head, coming directly towards Jason. Jason rolled desperately

sideways and the club crashed into the ground, then he was up and

running at top speed down the gully. Rocks twisted under his feet and

he knew that if he tripped he was dead, yet he had no choice other

than flight. The heavily armored Ch'aka could not keep up with him and

Jason managed to stay on his feet until the other was left behind.

Ch'aka shouted with rage and hurled curses after him, but he could not

catch him. Jason, panting for breath, vanished into the darkness and

made a slow circle back to the sleeping camp. The noise would have

roused them and he stayed away for an estimated hour, shivering in the

icy predawn, before he slipped back to his waiting skins. The sky was

beginning to gray and he lay awake wondering if he had been

recognized: he didn't think he had.

As the red sun climbed over the horizon Ch'aka appeared on top of the

dunes, shaking with rage.

"Who did it?" he screamed. "Who came in night." He stalked among them,

glaring right and left, and no one stirred except to draw away from

his stamping feet. "Who did it?" he shouted again as he came near the

spot where Jason lay.

Five slaves pointed silently at Jason.

* * * * *

Cursing their betrayal Jason sprang up and ran from the whistling

club. He had the sharpened horn in his hand but knew better than to

try and stand up to Ch'aka in open combat; there had to be another

way. He looked back quickly to see his enemy still following and

narrowly missed tripping over the outstretched leg of a slave. They

were all against him! They were all against each other and no man was

safe from any other man's hand. He ran free of the slaves and

scrambled to the top of a shifting dune, pulling himself up the steep

slope by clutching at the coarse grass on the summit. He turned at the

top and kicked sand into Ch'aka's face, trying to blind him, but had

to run when the slaver swung down his crossbow and notched a steel

quarrel. Ch'aka chased him again, panting heavily.

Jason was tiring now and he knew this was the best time to launch a

counterattack. The slaves were out of sight and it would be a battle

only between the two of them. Scrambling up a slope of broken rock he

reversed himself suddenly and leaped back down. Ch'aka was taken by

surprise and had his club only half-raised when Jason was upon him,

and he swung wildly. Jason ducked under the blow and used Ch'aka's

momentum to help throw him as he grabbed the club arm and pulled. Face

down the armored man crashed against the stones and Jason was

straddling his back even as he fell, clutching for his chin. He

lacerated his fingers on a jagged tooth necklace then grasped the

man's thick beard and pulled back. For a single long instant, before

he could writhe free and roll over, Ch'aka's head was stretched back,

and in that instant Jason plunged the sharp horn deep into the soft

flesh of the throat. Hot blood burst over his hand and Ch'aka

shuddered horribly under him and died.

Jason climbed wearily to his feet, suddenly exhausted. He was alone

with his victim. The cold wind swept about them carrying the rustling

grains of sand, chilling the sweat on his body. Sighing once he wiped

his bloody hands on the sand and began to strip the corpse. Thick

straps held the shell helmet over the dead man's head and when he

unknotted them and pulled it away he saw that Ch'aka was well past

middle age. There was some gray in his beard, but his scraggly hair

was completely gray, his face and balding head pallid white from being

concealed under the helmet. It took a long time to get the wrappings

and armor off and retie them over himself, but it was finally done.

Under the skin and claw wrappings on Ch'aka's feet were Jason's boots,

filthy but undamaged, and Jason drew them on happily. When at last,

after scouring it out with sand, he had strapped on the helmet, Ch'aka

was reborn. The corpse on the sand was just another dead slave. Jason

scraped a shallow grave, interred and covered it. Then, slung about

with weapons, bags and crossbow, the club in his hand, he stalked back

to the waiting slaves. As soon as he appeared they scrambled to their

feet and formed a line. Jason saw Ijale looking at him worriedly,

trying to discover who had won the battle.

[Illustration]

"Score one for the visiting team," he called out, and she gave him a

small, frightened smile and turned away. "About face all and head back

the way we came. There is a new day dawning for you slaves. I know you

don't believe this yet, but there are some big changes in store."

He whistled while he strolled after the line and chewed happily on the

first _krenoj_ that was found.