"Harder to kill than I thought," Jason muttered as he levered himself painfully up onto one elbow and took a good look at this world where his s.p.a.ceship sabotage had landed him.

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 sh.o.r.e. 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 a metallic tinkling, suddenly cut off. Mikah Samon groaned and stirred.

"How do you feel?" Jason asked. "Those are two of the finest bloodshot eyes 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 s.p.a.ce opera 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 ash.o.r.e, then something evil came from the darkness, like a demon from h.e.l.l. 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 1e 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 them back if I have to kill him for them."

"Do not l.u.s.t 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. "Beiall" 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 faint 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 rawboned 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 Fm going to find it. In fact, I'm going to take a walk right now and start my research. Agreed?"

A groan was the only answer, for Mikah was unconscious again, fresh blood seeping from his injured scalp. Jason stood up and wrapped the 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 he made his way through the stirring forms of the sleepers.

When he returned, Mikah was conscious again, 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 random movements, 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 there seems to be here 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, with 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 they doing?" Mikah asked, mumbling a little, obviously still suffering the aftereffects of the blow. Jason looked at the contused skull, and decided not to touch it. The wound had bled freely and the blood had now dotted. 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 exclaimed, horrified, 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 it is still the truth. The situation here is rough but not unbeatable, so listen and learn.

The boss-his name is Ch'aka-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 to 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 a lot of sounds and lost some, and they've 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. Now keep still and listen. These creatures 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 wide-s.p.a.ced 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 this 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 as big as his hand. He raised it over his head and brought the thing to Ch'aka at a shambling run. The slave-master took it and bit off a chunk, and when the man who had found it turned away he gave him a l.u.s.ty kick. The line moved forward again.

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

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 the slave 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, 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 grey object, a root or tuber of some kind, from which the green leaves were growing. It appeared to Jason as edible as a piece of stone, 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.

"nuns h'vas vi?" he asked.

"Mia nanzo estas Jason, mia amiko estas Mikah."

Jason had answered in correct Esperanto, which Ch'aka seemed to understand well enough, for 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 your 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 withered root that 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 be could. He handed one piece 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 deadfree, a much more attractive state. Now shut up and eat. We can't do anything until you are out of the walking-wounded cla.s.s."

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 food searching 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, for 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, c.o.c.king 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 rosinaro! 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 c.o.c.king the crossbow again, he went 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 methodically to 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 said to himself as he joined the others in searching the sh.o.r.e for driftwood. Ch'aka had the weapons, but he had a constant fear of a.s.sa.s.sination as well. 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 a firemaker before, the operation of it 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 firemaker and the crossbow come from? They were evidence of a higher level of culture than that possessed by those slaveholding nomads. This was the first bit of evidence Jason had seen that there might be more to the cultural life of this planet than they had seen since their landing.

Later, while the others were gorging themselves on the seared meat, he drew Mikah aside and pointed this out.

"There's hope yet. These illiterate thugs never manufactured that crossbow or firemaker. We must find out where they came from, and see about getting there ourselves. I had a look at the quarrel when Ch'aka pulled it out, and I'll swear that it was turned from a piece of 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 Ca.s.sylia. 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."

"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 sh.e.l.l 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 waterbags 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 he 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 Ch'aka's group. They plodded forward, making a slow examination of the sand, and were followed behind by the solitary figure of their master. The two lines slowly approached each other, paralleling the sh.o.r.e.

Near the dunes was a crude mound of stones and Ch'aka's line of 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 went 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 do 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 details. Instead of a conch, Fasimba's 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 rosniaro 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 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 overbold one he had half crippled with a kick the day before. Pulling him to his feet, he booted him towards the other group.

"Here a good one," he said, delivering the goods with a parting kick.

"Looks skinny. Not too good."

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