"Yes, sir," said Gleed, not liking the word 'cut.'

"So you're it," finished Grayder.

"What was that, sir?"

"You're it. You go over there while their man comes here."

"May I have that order from Colonel Shelton, sir?"

"Certainly."

Shelton came on and confirmed the instructions. "Keep your eyes and ears wide

open, Sergeant, and see what useful information you can pick up while among them."

"Right, sir."

"From the males," added Shelton pointedly.

"Eh?" said Gleed, astonished.

"Don't waste your time on the females."

"I hadn't the slightest intention of doing so, sir," assured Gleed in injured tones.

"I believe you," said Shelton. "Thousands wouldn't."

Dumping the phone, Gleed gave it an ugly look. "Officials!" he said.

"No spitting in the airlock," warned Harrison. "Are you staying in or going out?"

"I'm going out. As a hostage."

"A what?"

"A hostage. A full-blown sergeant as swap for a crummy, flea-bitten civilian."

"Well, we've got plenty of civilians aboard," mused Harrison, thinking of the

bureaucrats. "One of them would never be missed. Tell Shelton to send one in lieu of you."

"Don't be silly," advised Gleed. "An order is an order and that's that."

He went down the ladder. Harrison leaned out the lock and watched him.

By the time he reached the river-bank a dozen of the opposition had clustered together on the other side. The whole lot had crossbows slung over one shoulder and were gazing expectantly his way.

He cupped hands and bellowed, "I will go over there."

Two of them unhitched their weapons, handed them to their fellows, shoved out the canoe and paddled across. Gleed carefully looked them over as they neared, was not wildly enthusiastic about what he could see. They had lean, peaky faces, beady eyes, tousled hair and were wearing clothes that seemed to have been roughly hacked out of old sacks. It could be said in their favor that they shaved, at least once a month. A real pair of hoboes, thought Gleed.

Coming alongside, they held the canoe to the bank. "Get in."

"Not," said Gleed, knowing his rights, "before your man has got out."

The two grinned nastily at each other. One stepped out and stood on the bank idly watching while Gleed stepped in. Then he followed just as his companion pushed the canoe away from the verge. Both started to paddle like mad.

But Gleed had been a space-trooper too long to be bilked this easily. The canoe had gained only three yards from the bank when he threw his full weight to one side and overturned it. At this point the water was slightly less than four feet deep. Gleed snatched the nearest hobo by the scruff of the neck and dragged him with him as he waded ashore.

The other one was now swimming strongly for the opposite side while the canoe drifted bottom-up downstream. On the farther bank the onlookers howled, shook fists and performed an ungainly war-dance. Three of them unslung their crossbows and started winding them up to full stretch.

Now the captive made a dexterous twist that slipped him out of the ragged jacket Gleed was gripping. He tried to dash for the river but Gleed stuck out a swift foot and tripped him. Saying things under his breath, Gleed grabbed him by the hair, jerked him upright and kicked him in the seat.

This produced more zip in the war-dance on the other side. The yells rose louder. Taking no notice, Gleed got an armlock on his prisoner and began marching him toward the ship. Things went snuck-snuck past the two of them and the captive promptly tried to throw himself flat. Gleed held him up.

"They're shooting at us," protested the other.

"Then tell 'em to stop," said Gleed.

"Stop!" he screamed belatedly as another snuck went past. "Stop you verminous ponks!"

"I couldn't have expressed it better," approved Gleed.

A difference of opinion now arose on the opposite bank, three marksmen boasting of their ability to penetrate Gleed's chitlings without coming near to his companion while the others begged leave to doubt it. The argument became sufficiently heated for one to snatch another's crossbow and smite him over the head with it. The victim had a friend who expressed his resentment forcibly and also got bopped.

Glancing back from time to time, Gleed said, "No discipline in your mob. A real bunch of gnoits, eh?"

The prisoner kicked him in the ankle. Gleed responded with a harder one to the tail and hurried him up. They reached the ladder.

"You first, Mortimer," invited Gleed.

Mortimer jibbed. Gleed seized his hair and bounced his face half a dozen times on the sixth rung. It improved Mortimer's mind if not his features for he proceeded to climb. Gleed mounted behind him.

An escort of four troopers arrived at the airlock just as Gleed and his captive got into it. Taking possession of the latter, they marched him toward the control-cabin. Gleed stood staring sourly at his uniform which was sodden from the waist down.

Harrison observed virtuously, "If I wanted to play in the river I'd get undressed first."

"Your wit prostrates me," rasped Gleed. He stamped around making squelching sounds with his boots. "This isn't all, either. Bet you I'm on a charge for mauling a peaceful citizen."

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Harrison, "seeing that this is your day."

Chapter 2.

In the cabin Grayder, Shelton, Major Hame and the Ambassador surveyed the newcomer with mixed feelings. They didn't like his ratty eyes, his scruffy appearance or anything about him.

"What's you name?" Grayder began.

"Alaman Tung."

Somewhat to their surprise he did not come out with an angry tirade about his

treatment. Neither did he refuse to answer questions. He merely stood before them wearing a fixed scowl as though thoroughly accustomed to the idea that in these circumstances protests would be useless. It seemed to the audience that he considered himself a prisoner of war with an unknown fate before him. Obviously he was convinced that Terrans must be enemies and for that he had some basis in the shape of Gleed's boot.

"Where do you come from?" Grayder went on.

"The Tung stronghold."

"Is that the place across the river?"

"Yes."

"You call it a stronghold. By that do you mean it is an official military center, a

fort?"

"Fort?" echoed Alaman Tung, screwing up his eyes.

"It is a place to be defended?"

"Of course."

"Against whom?"

"Everyone."

"Everyone," repeated Grayder to the others. "What goes on here?" Without

waiting for anyone to guess he said to Tung, "Whoever comes near your stronghold is regarded as a foe.""Unless he plays the trading signal.""Ah, so it isn't everyone as you've just said?""Everyone all the time except in the trading season.""How long does that last?" Grayder inquired."A few days.""How often?""Once a year. Just four or five days a year. In the spring.""And what do you trade then?""Women," said Tung with devastating casualness.Grayder was horrified. "You mean you barter females like so much merchandise?"

"Only those who refuse to mate."

His features grim, Grayder said, "What happens to them after they've been

traded?"

"It depends."

"That's not an answer." Grayder smacked a hand heavily on his desk. "We want to know exactly what happens to them."

"Nothing much," responded Tung, openly bored with the subject. "If they see a man they like in the other stronghold they settle down with him. If they don't, they apply to be traded again. They go on that way until they are suited. Sometimes women make me sick."

"They actually ask to be traded from one place to another?" questioned Grayder, surprised.

Before the other could reply the Ambassador broke in and said ponderously, "I see nothing dreadful about this, Captain. If you give your daughter away in marriage you have, in effect, traded her to the man of her choice. The chief difference here seems to be that they won't let go of an eligible woman without receiving one in exchange."

"But-"

"And anyway it's a natural law that people many outside their own families. A lot of intermarriage is undesirable." He eyed the subject of their questions. "You call this place of yours the Tung stronghold. Does that mean it is occupied exclusively by Tungs?"

"Yes."

"One big family? All related to each other even if distantly?"

"The Tung slaves are no relations," said the other with unconcealed contempt.

"Slaves?" chipped in Grayder, hard-eyed again. "How many slaves have the Tungs got?"

"Ten."

"How did you acquire them?"

"In a fight."

"You made prisoners of them?"

"Naturally." He seemed to view this as a singularly stupid question. "They were