Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand
dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for, and found the
pencil-ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed
the stranger across the face, turned him around, and pointed him toward
the far corner.
"I count three," he said. "If you're not out of sight by three--"
"It'll be a pleasure, Peter," said Buregarde.
* * * * *
The stranger loped away on a crazy run. As he turned the corner he ran
face on to one of the uniformed mercenaries of Xanabar. The mercenary
collared the stranger and took a quick inventory of the slashed right
hand, the ripped clothing, and adding those to the frightened gallop he
came back with the stranger's left arm held in a backlock.