"Let's stroll up this street to the end and come back on the other
side," said the dog. "Quietly."
In a saunter they went, alert and poised. A man and his dog from all
appearances. But in Xanabar, the principal city of Xanabar the Empire
they were huntsman and companion.
Like all cities of more than ten million souls, Xanabar had its
glistening and lofty area and its slums--and what would have been a
waterfront region in a seafaring city. The conditions were the same as
they'd been everywhere for a few decades of thousands of years. Only the
technology changes. Man's cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic;
the cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide is protected from
the weather by stuff far more durable than his awn skin. But he's the
same man with the same hackles; they just rise for a few more thousand
reasons than the hackles of his ancestors.
"Got it!" said Buregarde coming to a brief point at a closed door.
"Let's go in!"
* * * * *