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                         Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction July and
    August 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
    U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.


                         THE ETHICAL ENGINEER


     That mores is strictly a matter of local custom cannot be
     denied. But that ethics is pure opinion also...? Maybe there
     are times for murder, and theft and slavery....


                          BY HARRY HARRISON


                    Illustrated by John Schoenherr


                            [Illustration]


    All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
    All chance, direction which thou canst not see;
    All discord, harmony not understood;
    All partial evil, universal good:
    And, spite of pride, in erring reasons spite,
    One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.

                                  Alexander Pope
                                     _Essay on Man_

       *       *       *       *       *




I

Jason dinAlt looked unhappily at the two stretchers as they were
carried by. "Are they at it again?" he asked.

Brucco nodded, the scowl permanently ingrained now on his hawklike
face. "We have only one thing to be thankful for. That is--so far at
least--they haven't used any weapons on each other."

Jason looked down unbelievingly at the shredded clothing, crushed
flesh and broken bones. "The absence of weapons doesn't appear to make
much difference when two Pyrrans start fighting. It seems impossible
that this damage could be administered bare-handed."

"Well it was. Even you should know that much about Pyrrus by now. We
take our fighting very seriously. But they never think how much more
work it makes for me. Now I have to patch these two idiots up and try
to find room for them in the ward." He stalked away, irritated and
annoyed as always. Jason usually laughed at the doctor's irascible
state, but not today.

Today, and for some days past, he had found himself living with a
persistent feeling of irritation, that had arrived at the same time as
his discovery that it is far easier to fight a war than to administer
a peace. The battle at the perimeter still continued, since the massed
malevolence of the Pyrran life forms were not going to call a truce
simply because the two warring groups of humans had done so. There was
battle on the perimeter and a continual feeling of unrest inside the
city. So far there had been very little traffic between the city
Pyrrans and those living outside the walls, and what contact there had
been usually led to the kind of violence he had just witnessed. The
only minor note of hope in this concert of discord was the fact that
no one had died--as yet--in any of these fearsome hand-to-hand
conflicts. In spite of the apparent deadliness of the encounters all
of the Pyrrans seemed to understand that, despite past hatreds, they
were all really on the same side. A distant rumble from the clouded
sky broke through his thoughts.

"There is a ship on the radar," Meta said, coming out of the
ground-control office and squinting up at the overcast. "I wonder if
it is that ecology expedition that Brucco arranged--or the cargo ship
from Ondion?"

"We'll find out in a few minutes," Jason said, happy to forget his
troubles for the moment in frank admiration, since just looking at
Meta was enough to put a golden edge on this gloom-filled day.
Standing there, head back searching the sky, she managed to be
beautiful even in the formless Pyrran coverall. Jason put his arms
around her waist and exacted a great deal of pleasure from kissing the
golden length of her up-stretched throat.

"Oh, Jason ... not now," she said in exasperation. Pyrran minds, by
necessity, run along one track at a time, and at the present moment
she was thinking about the descending spaceship. With a quick motion,
scarcely aware of her action, she pulled his hands from her and pushed
him away, an easy enough thing for a Pyrran girl to do. But in doing
so she half fractured one of his wrists, numbed the other, and knocked
Jason to the ground.

"Darling ... I'm sorry," she gasped, suddenly realizing what she had
done, bending quickly to help him up.

"Get away, you lady weight-lifter," he growled, pushing aside the
proffered hand and struggling to his feet. "When are you going to
realize that I'm only human, not made of chrome steel bars like the
rest of your people...." He stifled the rest of his words in disgust,
at himself, his temper, this deadly planet and the cantankerousness of
its citizens that was scratching away at his nerves. He turned and
stamped away, angry at himself for taking out his vile mood on Meta,
but still too annoyed to make peace.

Meta watched him leave, trying to say something that would end this
foolish quarrel, but unable to. The largest blank in the Pyrran
personality was an almost complete lack of knowledge of human nature,
and her struggle to fill in the gaps--gaps she was only just beginning
to realize existed--was a difficult one. The stronger emotions of hate
and fear were no strangers to her; but for the first time she was
discovering how difficult and complex was this unusual feeling of
love. She let Jason go because she was incapable of any other action.
Of course she could stop him by force, but if she had learned anything
in the past few weeks, it was the discovery that this was one area
where he was very sensitive. There was no doubt that she was far
stronger than he--physically--and he did not like to be reminded about
it. She went back into the ground-control room, almost eager to deal
with the impersonal faces of the dials and scopes, material and
unchanging entities that posed no conflicting problems.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jason stood at the edge of the field and watched the ship come in for
a landing, his anger forgotten temporarily in the presence of this
break in routine. Perhaps this was the shipful of scientific eggheads
that Brucco was expecting; he hoped so. It would be a pleasant treat
to have a conversation with someone about a topic more universal than
the bore dimensions of guns. With practiced eye he watched the landing
which was a little sloppy, either a new pilot or an old one who didn't
care much. It was a small ship so not many people would be aboard.
Then the spacer turned for a moment, in a landing correction, and he
had a quick glimpse of a serial number and tantalizingly familiar
insignia on its stern--where had he seen that before?

The ship touched down and the flaring rockets died. There was only the
click of cooling metal from the ship: no one emerged, nor did any of
the Pyrrans seem interested enough in the newcomer to approach it.
That must mean that no one had any business with it, and, of course,
no curiosity either, for this along with imagination was in very short
supply on the war-torn planet. Since no one else was making any moves,
Jason went forward to investigate for himself.

A stingwing that had escaped the perimeter guards dived towards him
and he blasted it automatically with his gun. The corpse thudded to
the ground and the soil churned around it as the insectile scavengers
fought for the flesh; only bare bones remained by the time he had
taken two paces.

A muffled whine of motors told him that the lower hatch was opening,
and Jason watched as a hairline crack appeared in the thick metal,
then widened as the heavy door ground outwards. Through the opening he
had a glimpse of a figure muffled in a heavy-duty spacesuit. That must
be Meta's work, she would have contacted the ship by radio while it
was on its way down and explained the standing orders that no
off-worlders were to be allowed out of their ships unless wearing the
heaviest armor. Since the armed truce between the human inhabitants
there had been a lessening of the relentless warfare the Pyrran life
forms waged against the city, but only to a slight degree. Deadly
beasts still abounded, and the air was thick with toxic diseases. A
stranger, unprotected, would be ill in five minutes, dead within
ten--or much sooner if a horndevil or other beast got to him in the
interval.

Jason felt a justified pride that he could walk this planet under his
own power. The natives, adapted to the deadliness and heavy gravity
since birth, were still his superiors, but he was the only off-worlder
who could stand the dangers of Pyrrus. His gun whined out of his power
holster into his waiting hand as he searched for some target to use
his talents on. An armored piece of nastiness, with a lot of legs, was
crawling into hiding under a rock and he blasted it neatly with a
single shot. The gun snapped back into the holster and he turned to
the open door of the spacer, his morale greatly improved.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Welcome to Pyrrus," he told the ungainly figure that clumped out of
the ship. There was a hefty maser-projector clutched in the armored
gloves and whoever was inside the suit, the face was invisible behind
the thick and tinted faceplate, seemed exceedingly nervous, turning to
look in all directions.

"Don't worry," Jason said, fighting to keep a tone of smug
satisfaction out of his voice, "I'll take care of things for you. I
don't know what kind of horror stories you may have heard about
Pyrrus--but they're all true. That's a nice looking heat ray you have
there, but I doubt if you could move fast enough to use it."

The figure lowered the gun and fumbled for a switch on the front of
the space armor, it clicked and a speaker diaphragm rustled.

"I'm looking for a man called Jason dinAlt. Can you tell me if he is
on this planet or if he has left?"

It was impossible to tell the speaker's tone from the rasping
diaphragm, and no face was visible that might betray an emotion. This
was the moment when Jason should have shown caution, and have
remembered that there were thousands of policemen scattered across the
galaxy who would heartily enjoy putting him under arrest. Yet he
couldn't imagine any of them going to the trouble of following him
here. And certainly there could be very little danger from a
spacesuited man with a rifle, not to the man who had learned to take
Pyrrus on its own terms, and live.

"I'm Jason dinAlt," he said. "What do you want me for?"

"I've come a long way to find you," the speaker rasped. "Now"--the
gloved hand pointed--"what is THAT?"

Jason's reactions were instantaneous, conditioned to move without
thought. He wheeled, crouched, the gun in his hand and finger
quivering lightly on the trigger, pointed in the indicated direction.
There was nothing unusual to be seen, just an empty field and the
control building at the edge.

"Whatever are you talking about ..." Jason asked, then stopped as it
became very obvious what the stranger had been talking about. The
large, flanged mouth of the maser-projector ground into the small of
his back. His own gun snapped halfway out of its holster, buzzed
briefly, then slipped back as he realized his position.

"That's much better," the stranger said. "If you attempt to move,
turn, lower your gun hand or do anything I don't like I'll pull this
trigger and...."

"I know," Jason sighed, careful to stand with every muscle frozen.
"You will pull the trigger and burn a nice round hole through my
backbone and intestines. But I would just like to know why? Who is it
that is so interested in my worthless old carcass that they were
willing to pay interstellar freight charges to send you and that
oversize toaster all the way here in order to threaten it?"

Jason was only talking to kill time, since he knew this situation
would not stay static for long, not on Pyrrus. He was completely right
because before he had finished the ground-control door burst open and
Meta ran out, circling to the left. At the same moment Kerk appeared
from behind the building, his Pyrran reflexes absorbing the situation
in an instant and with no perceptible delay he ran in the opposite
direction. Both Pyrrans had their guns ready and closed in with the
merciless precision of trained predators.

"Tell them to stop," the suit speaker grated at Jason. "I'll shoot you
if they try anything."

"Hold it!" Jason shouted, and the running Pyrrans stopped instantly.
"Don't come any closer and whatever you do don't shoot." He
half-turned his head and spoke in a quieter voice to the suited figure
behind him. "Now you see where you stand. Lower the gun and get back
into your ship, I guarantee you'll stay alive if you do that at once."

"Don't try and buff me, dinAlt," the maser barrel pushed harder
against his back. "You are my prisoner and your friends can't save
you. Start walking backwards now--I'll stay right behind you."

"Look," Jason said calmly, not permitting himself to get angry. "Those
are _Pyrrans_ out there. Either of them could kill you so quickly that
you couldn't possibly have time to pull that trigger. I'm saving your
life--though I don't know why I'm bothering--so be a good boy and get
back into your ship and go home and we'll give you a T for trying."

"Could I have him, please Kerk?" Meta called out, the deadly
assumption of her remark punctuating Jason's logic. "After all, Jason
means more to me than you. Shall I kill him yet, Jason?"

"Just shoot his gun hand off, Meta," Kerk told her, in the same
emotionless tone. "I want to know who this is, why he came here,
before he dies."

"Get back into your ship, you fool," Jason hissed. "You've got only
seconds to live."

"Start walking backwards," his captor said. "You are under arrest.
I'll count to three, then shoot. One ... two...."

Jason shuffled a cautious step to the rear and the Pyrran guns snapped
up at the same instant, extended at arm's length. Jason was so close
to the man in the spacesuit that the guns could have been pointed at
him, the eyes sighting carefully over the dark muzzles.

"Don't shoot!" Jason shouted to his friends.

"Don't worry," Kerk called back. "We won't hit you."

"I know that--it's this idiot here that I'm worrying about. You just
can't shoot him for trying to do his job. In fact I'm surprised to
find out that there is one honest cop left on any of the places I've
been."

"Don't talk so crazy," Meta said with maddening sweetness. "We'll kill
him, Jason. We'll take care of you."

Anger hit him. "You will NOT take care of me because I can take care
of myself. Either of you kill him and so help me I'll kill you." Jason
shuffled backwards faster now until his legs hit the lower edge of the
hatch. He clambered into it and burst out laughing at the dumfounded
expressions of his friends' faces. The laugh died as something pricked
the back of his neck. The pressure of the gun was gone and he swung
around, surprised to see the floor rushing up towards him, but before
it struck him blackness descended.

Consciousness returned, accompanied by a thudding headache that made
Jason wince when he moved, and when he opened his eyes the pain of the
light made him screw them shut again. Whatever the drug was that had
knocked him out, it was fast working, and seemed to be oxidized just
as quickly. The headache faded away to a dull throb and he could open
his eyes without feeling that needles were being driven into them. He
was seated in a standard spacechair that had been equipped with wrist
and ankle locks, now well secured. A man sat in the chair next to him,
intent on the spaceship's controls; the ship was in flight and well
into space. The stranger was working the computer, cutting a tape to
control their flight in jump-space.

Jason took the opportunity to study the man. He seemed to be a little
old for a policeman, though on second thought it was really hard to
tell his age. His hair was gray and cropped as short as a skull cap,
but the wrinkles on his leathery skin seemed to have been caused more
by exposure than advanced years. Tall and firmly erect, he appeared
underweight at first glance, until Jason realized this effect was
caused by the total absence of any excess flesh. It was as though he
had been cooked by the sun and leeched by the rain until only bone,
tendon and muscle were left. When he turned his head the muscles stood
out like cables under the skin of his neck and his hands at the
controls were the browned talons of some bird. A hard finger pressed
the switch that actuated the jump control, and he turned away from the
board to face Jason.

"I see you are awake. It was a mild drug. I did not enjoy using it,
but it was the safest way."

When he talked his jaw opened and shut with the seriousness of a bank
vault. The deep-set and cold blue eyes stared fixedly from under dark
brows. Jason stared back just as steadily and chuckled.

"I suppose you didn't enjoy using the maser-projector either, nor
threatening to cook holes in me. For a cop you seem to be very tender
hearted."

"I did it only to save your friends. I did not want them to get hurt."

"Get hurt!" Jason roared with laughter. "Space-cop, don't you have any
idea what Pyrrans are like, or what kind of a setup you were walking
into? Don't you realize that I saved your life--though I really don't
know why. Call me a natural humanitarian. You may have a swollen head
and a ready trigger-finger, but you were so far out of your class that
you just weren't in the race. They could have blasted you into pieces,
then shot the pieces into smaller pieces, while you were still
thinking about pulling the trigger. You should just thank me for being
your savior."

"So you are a liar as well as a thief," Jason's captor answered with
no change of expression. "You attempt to play on my sympathies to gain
your freedom. Why should I believe this story? I came to arrest you,
threatening to kill you if you didn't submit, and your friends were
there ready to defend you. Why should you attempt to save my life? It
does not make sense." He turned back to the controls to make an
adjustment.

[Illustration: Mikah Samon]

It didn't make sense, Jason agreed completely. Why had he saved this
oaf who meant nothing to him? It was not an easy question to answer,
though it had seemed so right at the time. If only Meta hadn't said
that they would take care of him; he knew they could and was tired of
it. He could take care of himself: he felt the anger rising again at
the remembered words. Was that the only reason he had let this cop
capture him? To show the Pyrrans that he was able to control his own
destiny? Was the human ego such a pitiable thing that it had to keep
reassuring itself of its own independence or lie down on its back and
curl up its toes?

Apparently it was. At least his was. The years had taught him a
certain insight into his own personality and he realized that his
greedy little subconscious had collected all the cues and signals from
the encounter at the spaceport and goaded him into a line of action
that looked uncomfortably like suicide. The arrival of the stranger,
the threat to himself, the automatic assumption by the Pyrrans that
they would take care of him. Apparently his ego and his subconscious
felt that he had been taken care of too long. They had managed to get
him into this spot from which he could only be extricated by his own
talents, far away from Pyrrus and the pressures that had been weighing
on him so long.

He took a deep breath and smiled. It wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Stupid in retrospect, but the stupidity could hopefully be kept in the
past. Now he had to prove that there was something other than a death
wish in his subconscious flight from Pyrrus, and he must find a way to
reverse positions with this cop, whoever he was. Which meant that he
had to find out a little more about the man before making any plans.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, officer. How about telling
me who you are and showing me a warrant or something under which you
are performing this deed of interstellar justice."

"I am Mikah Samon. I am returning you to Cassylia for trial and
sentencing."

"Ah, yes," Jason sighed. "I'm not surprised to hear that they are
still interested in finding me. But I should warn you that there is
very little remaining of the three-billion, seventeen-million credits
that I won from your casino."

"Cassylia doesn't want the money back," Mikah said as he locked the
controls and swung about in his chair. "They don't want you back
either. You are their planetary hero now. When you escaped with your
ill-gotten gains they realized that they would never see the money
again. So they put their propaganda mills to work and you are now
known throughout all the adjoining star systems as 'Jason 3-Billion',
the living proof of the honesty of their dishonest games, and a lure
for all the weak in spirit. You tempt them into gambling for money
instead of working honestly for it."

"Pardon me for being thick today," Jason said, shaking his head
rapidly to loosen up the stuck synapses. "I'm having a little
difficulty in following you. What kind of a policeman are you to
arrest me for trial after the charges have been dropped?"

"I'm not a policeman," Mikah said sternly, his long fingers woven
tightly together before him, his eyes wide and penetrating. "I'm a
believer in Truth--nothing more. The corrupt politicians who control
Cassylia have placed you on a pedestal of honor. Honoring you,
another--and if possible--a more corrupt man, and behind your image
they have waxed fat. But I am going to use the Truth to destroy that
image, and when I destroy the image I shall destroy the evil that
produced it."

"That's a tall order for one man," Jason said calmly--much calmer than
he really felt. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"There is, of course, no tobacco or spirits on this ship. And I am
more than one man. I have followers. The Truth Party is already a
power to be reckoned with. We have spent much time and energy in
tracking you down, but it was worth it. We have followed your
dishonest trail into the past, to Mahaut's Planet, to the Nebula
Casino on Galipto, through a series of sordid crimes that turns an
honest man's stomach. We have warrants for your arrest from each of
these places, in some cases even the results of trials and your death
sentence."

"I suppose it doesn't bother your sense of legality that those trials
were all held in my absence," Jason asked. "Or that I have only
fleeced casinos and gamblers--who make their living by fleecing
suckers?"

Mikah Samon wiped away this consideration with a wave of his hand.
"You have been proven guilty of a number of crimes. No amount of
wriggling on the hook can change that. You should be thankful that
your revolting record will have a good use in the end. It will be the
lever with which we shall topple the grafting government of Cassylia."

"I'm beginning to be sorry that I stopped Kerk and Meta from shooting
you," Jason said, shaking his head in wonder. "I have a very strong
suspicion that you are going to cause yourself--and a lot of other
people--a good deal of trouble before this thing is over. Look at me
for instance--" he rattled his wrists in their restraining bands. The
servo motors whined a bit as the detector unit came to life and
tightened the grasp of the cuffs, limiting his movement. "A little
while ago I was enjoying my health and freedom and I threw it all away
on the impulse to save your life. I'm going to have to learn to fight
those impulses."

"If that is supposed to be a plea for mercy, it is sickening," Mikah
said. "I have never taken favors nor do I owe anything to men of your
type. Nor will I ever."

"_Ever_ like _never_ is a long time," Jason said very quietly. "I wish
I had your serenity of mind about the sure order of things."

"Your remark shows that there might be hope for you yet. You might be
able to recognise the Truth before you die. I will help you, talk to
you and explain."

"Better the execution," Jason choked.


II

"Are you going to feed me by hand--or unlock my wrists while I eat?"
Jason asked. Mikah stood over him with the tray, undecided. Jason gave
a light verbal prod, very gently, because whatever else he was, Mikah
was not stupid. "I would prefer you to feed me of course, you'd make
an excellent body servant."

"You are capable of eating by yourself," Mikah responded instantly,
sliding the tray into the slots of Jason's chair. "But you will have
to do it with only one hand. If you were freed you would only cause
trouble." He touched the control on the back of the chair and the
right wrist lock snapped open. Jason stretched his cramped fingers and
picked up the fork.

While he ate Jason's eyes were busy. Not obviously, since a gambler's
attention is never obvious, but many things can be seen if you keep
your eyes open and your attention apparently elsewhere. A sudden
glimpse of someone's cards, the slight change of expression that
reveals a player's strength. Item by item his seemingly random gaze
touched the items in the cabin: control console, screens, computer,
chart screen, jump control chart case, bookshelf. Everything was
observed, remembered and considered. Some combination of them would
fit into the plan.

So far all he had was the beginning and the end of an idea. Beginning:
He was a prisoner in this ship, on his way back to Cassylia. End: He
was not going to remain a prisoner--nor return to Cassylia. Now all
that was missing was the vital middle. It looked impossible at the
moment, but Jason never considered that it couldn't be done. He
operated on the principle that you made your own luck. You kept your
eyes open as things evolved and at the right moment you acted. If you
acted fast enough, that was good luck. If you worried over the
possibilities until the moment had passed, that was bad luck.

He pushed the empty plate away and stirred sugar into his cup. Mikah
had eaten sparingly and was now starting on his second cup of tea. His
eyes were fixed, unfocused in thought as he drank. He started slightly
when Jason called to him.

"Since you don't stock cigarettes on this ship--how about letting me
smoke my own? You'll have to dig them out for me since I can't reach
the pocket while I'm chained to this chair."

"I cannot help you," Mikah said, unmoving. "Tobacco is an irritant, a
drug and a carcinogen. If I gave you a cigarette, I would be giving
you cancer."

"Don't be a hypocrite!" Jason snapped, inwardly pleased at the
rewarding flush in the other's neck. "They've taken the
cancer-producing agents out of tobacco for centuries now. And even if
they hadn't--how does that affect this situation. You're taking me to
Cassylia to certain death. So why should you concern yourself with the
state of my lungs in the future?"

"I hadn't considered it that way. It is just that there are certain
rules of life...."

"Are there?" Jason broke in, keeping the initiative and the advantage.
"Not as many as you like to think. And you people who are always
dreaming up the rules never carry your thinking far enough. You are
against drugs. Which drugs? What about the tannic acid in that tea
you're drinking? Or the caffeine in it? It's loaded with caffeine--a
drug that is both a strong stimulant and a diuretic. That's why you
won't find tea in spacesuit canteens. That's a case of a drug
forbidden for a good reason. Can you justify your cigarette ban the
same way?"

Mikah started to talk, then thought for a moment. "Perhaps you are
right. I'm tired, and it is not important." He warily took the
cigarette case from Jason's pocket and dropped it onto the tray. Jason
didn't attempt to interfere. Mikah poured himself a third cup of tea
with a slightly apologetic air.

"You must excuse me, Jason, for attempting to make you conform to my
own standards. When you are in pursuit of the big Truths, you
sometimes let the little Truths slip. I'm not intolerant, but I do
tend to expect everyone else to live up to certain criteria I have set
for myself. Humility is something we should never forget and I thank
you for reminding me of it. The search for Truth is hard."

"There is no Truth," Jason told him, the anger and insult gone now
from his voice since he wanted to keep his captor involved in the
conversation. Involved enough to forget about the free wrist for a
while. He raised the cup to his lips and let the tea touch his lips
without drinking any. The half-full cup supplied an unconsidered
reason for his free hand.

"No Truth?" Mikah weighed the thought. "You can't possibly mean that.
The galaxy is filled with Truth, it's the touchstone of Life itself.
It's the thing that separates Mankind from the animals."

"There is no Truth, no Life, no Mankind. At least not the way you
spell them--with capital letters. They don't exist."

Mikah's taut skin contracted into a furrow of concentration. "You'll
have to explain yourself," he said. "You're not being clear."

"I'm afraid it's you who aren't being clear. You're making a reality
where none exists. Truth--with a small _T_ is a description, a
relationship. A way to describe a statement. A semantic tool. But
capital _T_ Truth is an imaginary word, a noise with no meaning. It
pretends to be a noun but it has no referent. It stands for nothing.
It means nothing. When you say 'I believe in Truth' you are really
saying 'I believe in nothing'."

"You're wrong, you're wrong," Mikah said, leaning forward, stabbing
with his finger. "Truth is a philosophical abstraction, one of the
tools that mankind's mind has used to raise it above the beasts--the
proof that we are not beasts ourselves, but a higher order of
creation. Beasts can be true--but they cannot know Truth. Beasts can
see, but they cannot see Beauty."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Arrgh!" Jason growled. "It's impossible to talk to you, much less
enjoy any comprehensible exchange of ideas. We aren't even speaking
the same language. Aside from who is right and who is wrong, for the
moment, we should go back to basics and at least agree on the meaning
of the terms that we are using. To begin with--can you define the
difference between _ethics_ and _ethos_?"

"Of course," Mikah snapped, a glint of pleasure in his eyes at the
thought of a good rousing round of hair-splitting. "Ethics is the
discipline dealing with what it good or bad, or right or wrong--or
with moral duty and obligation. Ethos means the guiding beliefs,
standards or ideals that characterize a group or community."

"Very good, I can see that you have been spending the long
spaceship-nights with your nose buried in the books. Now make sure the
difference between those two terms is very clear, because it is the
heart of the little communications problem we have here. Ethos is
inextricably linked with a single society and cannot be separated
from it, or it loses all meaning. Do you agree?"

"Well...."

"Come, come--you _have_ to agree on the terms of your own definition.
The ethos of a group is just a catch-all term for the ways in which
the members of a group rub against each other. Right?"

Mikah reluctantly produced a nod of acquiescence.

"Now that we agree about that we can push on one step further. Ethics,
again by your definition, must deal with any number of societies or
groups. If there are any absolute laws of ethics, they must be so
inclusive that they can be applied to _any_ society. A law of ethics
must be as universal of application as is the law of gravity."

"I don't follow you...?"

"I didn't think you would when I got to this point. You people who
prattle about your Universal Laws never really consider the exact
meaning of the term. My knowledge of the history of science is very
vague, but I'm willing to bet that the first Law of Gravity ever
dreamed up stated that things fell at such and such a speed, and
accelerated at such and such a rate. That's not a law, but an
observation that isn't even complete until you add 'on this planet.'
On a planet with a different mass there will be a different
observation. The law of gravity is the formula

           mM
      F = ----
           d squared

and this can be used to compute the force of gravity between any two
bodies anywhere. This is a way of expressing fundamental and
unalterable principles that apply in all circumstances. If you are
going to have any real ethical laws they will have to have this same
universality. They will have to work on Cassylia or Pyrrus, or on any
planet or in any society you can find. Which brings us back to you.
What you so grandly call--with capital letters and a flourish of
trumpets--'Laws of Ethics' aren't laws at all, but are simple little
chunks of tribal ethos, aboriginal observations made by a gang of
desert sheepherders to keep order in the house--or tent. These rules
aren't capable of any universal application, even you must see that.
Just think of the different planets that you have been on and the
number of weird and wonderful ways people have of reacting to each
other--then try and visualize ten rules of conduct that would be
applicable in all these societies. An impossible task. Yet I'll bet
that you have ten rules you want me to obey, and if one of them is
wasted on an injunction against saying prayers to carved idols I can
imagine just how universal the other nine are. You aren't being
ethical if you try to apply them wherever you go--you're just finding
a particularly fancy way to commit suicide!"

"You are being insulting!"

"I hope so. If I can't reach you in any other way, perhaps insult will
jar you out of your state of moral smugness. How dare you even
consider having me tried for stealing money from the Cassylia casino
when all I was doing was conforming to their own code of ethics! They
run crooked gambling games, so the law under their local ethos must be
that crooked gambling is the norm. So I cheated them, conforming to
their norm. If they have also passed a law that says cheating at
gambling is illegal, the _law_ is unethical, not the cheating. If you
are bringing me back to be tried by that law you are unethical, and I
am the helpless victim of an evil man."

"Limb of Satan!" Mikah shouted, leaping to his feet and pacing back
and forth before Jason, clasping and unclasping his hands with
agitation. "You seek to confuse me with your semantics and so-called
ethics that are simply opportunism and greed. There is a Higher Law
that cannot be argued--"

"That is an impossible statement--and I can prove it." Jason pointed
at the books on the wall. "I can prove it with your own books, some of
that light reading on the shelf there. Not the Aquinas--too thick. But
the little volume with _Lull_ on the spine. Is that Ramon Lull's 'The
Booke of the Ordre of Chyualry'?"

Mikah's eyes widened. "You know the book? You're acquainted with
Lull's writing?"

"Of course," Jason said, with an offhandedness he did not feel, since
this was the only book in the collection he could remember reading,
the odd title had stuck in his head. "Now let me see it and I shall
prove to you what I mean." There was no way to tell from the unchanged
naturalness of his words that this was the moment he had been working
carefully towards. He sipped the tea. None of his tenseness showing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mikah Samon got the book and handed it to him.

Jason flipped through the pages while he talked. "Yes ... yes, this is
perfect. An almost ideal example of your kind of thinking. Do you like
to read Lull?"

"Inspirational!" Mikah answered, his eyes shining. "There is beauty in
every line and Truths that we have forgotten in the rush of modern
life. A reconciliation and proof of the interrelationship between the
Mystical and the Concrete. By manipulation of symbols he explains
everything by absolute logic."

"He proves nothing about nothing," Jason said emphatically. "He plays
word games. He takes a word, gives it an abstract and unreal value,
then proves this value by relating it to other words with the same
sort of nebulous antecedents. His facts aren't facts--just meaningless
sounds. This is the key point, where your universe and mine differ.
You live in this world of meaningless facts that have no existence. My
world contains facts that can be weighed, tested, proven related to
other facts in a logical manner. My facts are unshakeable and
unarguable. They exist."

"Show me one of your unshakeable facts," Mikah said, his voice calmer
now than Jason's.

"Over there," Jason said. "The large green book over the console. It
contains facts that even you will agree are true--I'll eat every page
if you don't. Hand it to me." He sounded angry, making overly bold
statements and Mikah fell right into the trap. He handed the volume to
Jason, using both hands since it was very thick, metal bound and
heavy.

[Illustration]

"Now listen closely and try and understand, even if it is difficult
for you," Jason said, opening the book. Mikah smiled wryly at this
assumption of his ignorance. "This is a stellar ephemeris, just as
packed with facts as an egg is with meat. In some ways it is a history
of mankind. Now look at the jump screen there on the control console
and you will see what I mean. Do you see the horizontal green line?
Well, that's our course."

"Since this is my ship and I'm flying it I'm aware of that," Mikah
said. "Get on with your proof."

"Bear with me," Jason told him. "I'll try and keep it simple. Now the
red dot on the green line is our ship's position. The number above the
screen our next navigational point, the spot where a star's
gravitational field it strong enough to be detected in jump space. The
number is the star's code listing. DB89-046-229. I'll look it up in
the book"--he quickly flipped the pages--"and find its listing. No
name. A row of code symbols though that tell a lot about it. This
little symbol means that there is a planet or planets suitable for man
to live on. Doesn't say if any people are there though."

"Where does this all lead to?" Mikah interrupted.

"Patience--you'll see in a moment. Now look, at the screen. The green
dot approaching on the course line is the PMP. Point of Maximum
Proximity. When the red dot and green dot coincide...."

"Give me that book," Mikah ordered, stepping forward. Aware suddenly
that something was wrong. He was just an instant too late.

"Here's your proof," Jason said, and hurled the heavy book through the
jump screen into the delicate circuits behind. Before it hit he had
thrown the second book. There was a tinkling crash, a flare of light
and the crackle of shorted circuits.

The floor gave a tremendous heave as the relays snapped open, dropping
the ship through into normal space.

Mikah grunted in pain, clubbed to the floor by the suddenness of the
transition. Locked into the chair, Jason fought the heaving of his
stomach and the blackness before his eyes. As Mikah dragged himself to
his feet, Jason took careful aim and sent the tray and dishes hurtling
into the smoking ruin of the jump computer.

"There's your fact," he said in cheerful triumph. "Your
incontrovertible, gold-plated, uranium-cored fact.

"We're not going to Cassylia any more!"


III

"You've killed us both," Mikah said with his face strained and white
but his voice under control.

"Not quite," Jason told him cheerily. "But I have killed the jump
control so we can't get to another star. However there's nothing wrong
with our space drive, so we can make a landing on one of the
planets--you saw for yourself that there is at least one suitable for
habitation."

"Where I will fix the jump drive and continue the voyage to Cassylia.
You will have gained nothing."

"Perhaps," Jason answered in his most noncommittal voice, since he did
not have the slightest intention of continuing the trip, no matter
what Mikah Samon thought.

His captor had reached the same conclusion. "Put your hand back on the
chair arm," he ordered, and locked the cuff into place again. He
stumbled as the drive started and the ship changed direction. "What
was that?" he asked.

"Emergency control. The ship's computer knows that something drastic
is wrong, so it has taken over. You can override it with the manuals,
but don't bother yet. The ship can do a better job than either of us
with its senses and stored data. It will find the planet we're looking
for, plot a course and get us there with the most economy of time and
fuel. When we get into the atmosphere you can take over and look for a
spot to set down."

"I don't believe a word you say now," Mikah said grimly. "I'm going to
take control and get a call out on the emergency band. Someone will
hear it." As he started forward the ship lurched again and all the
lights went out. In the darkness flames could be seen flickering
inside the controls. There was a hiss of foam and they vanished. With
a weak flicker the emergency lighting circuit came on.

"Shouldn't have thrown the Ramon Lull book," Jason said. "The ship
can't stomach it any more than I could."

"You are irreverent and profane," Mikah said through his clenched
teeth, as he went to the controls. "You attempt to kill us both. You
have no respect for your own life or mine. You're a man who deserves
the worst punishment the law allows."

"I'm a gambler," Jason laughed. "Not at all as bad as you say. I take
chances--but I only take them when the odds are right. You were
carrying me back to certain death. The worst my wrecking the controls
can do is administer the same end. So I took a chance. There is a
bigger risk factor for you of course, but I'm afraid I didn't take
that into consideration. After all, this entire affair is your idea.
You'll just have to take the consequences of your own actions and not
scold me for them."

"You're perfectly right," Mikah said quietly. "I should have been more
alert. Now will you tell me what to do to save _both_ our lives. None
of the controls work."

"None! Did you try the emergency override? The big red switch under
the safety housing."

"I did. It is dead, too."

Jason slumped back into the seat. It was a moment before he could
speak. "Read one of your books, Mikah," he said at last. "Seek
consolation in your philosophy. There's nothing we can do. It's all up
to the computer now, and whatever is left of the circuits."

"Can't we help--repair anything?"

"Are you a ship technician? I'm not. We would probably do more harm
than good."

       *       *       *       *       *

It took two ship-days of very erratic flight to reach the planet. A
haze of clouds obscured the atmosphere. They approached from the night
side and no details were visible. Or lights.

"If there were cities we should see their lights--shouldn't we?" Mikah
asked.

"Not necessarily. Could be storms. Could be enclosed cities. Could be
only ocean in this hemisphere."

"Or it could be that there are no people down there. Even if the ship
should get us down safely--what will it matter? We will be trapped for
the rest of our lives on this lost planet at the end of the universe."

"Don't be so cheerful," Jason interrupted. "How about taking off these
cuffs while we go down. It will probably be a rough landing and I'd
like to have some kind of a chance."

Mikah frowned at him. "Will you give me your word of honor that you
won't try to escape during the landing?"

"No. And if I gave it--would you believe it? If you let me go, you
take your chances. Let neither of us think it will be any different."

"I have my duty to do," Mikah said. Jason remained locked in the
chair.

They were in the atmosphere, the gentle sighing against the hull
quickly climbed the scale to a shrill scream. The drive cut out and
they were in free fall. Air friction heated the outer hull white-hot
and the interior temperature quickly rose in spite of the cooling
unit.

"What's happening?" Mikah asked. "You seem to know more about this.
Are we through--going to crash?"

"Maybe. Could be only one of two things. Either the whole works has
folded up--in which case we are going to be scattered in very small
pieces all over the landscape, or the computer is saving itself for
one last effort. I hope that's it. They build computers smart these
days, all sort of problem-solving circuits. The hull and engines are
in good shape--but the controls spotty and unreliable. In a case like
this a good human pilot would let the ship drop as far and fast as it
could before switching on the drive. Then turn it on full--thirteen
gees or more, whatever he figured the passengers could take on the
couches. The hull would take a beating, but who cares. The control
circuits would be used the shortest amount of time in the simplest
manner."

"Do you think that's what is happening?" Mikah asked, getting into his
acceleration chair.

"That's what I _hope_ is happening. Going to unlock the cuffs before
you go to bed? It could be a bad landing and we might want to go
places in a hurry."

Mikah considered, then took out his gun. "I'll unlock you, but I
intend to shoot if you try anything. Once we are down you will be
locked in again."

"Thanks for small blessings," Jason said, rubbing his wrists.

Deceleration jumped on them, kicked the air from their lungs in
uncontrollable gasps, sank them deep into the yielding couches.
Mikah's gun was pressed into his chest, too heavy to lift. It made no
difference, Jason could not stand nor move. He hovered on the border
of consciousness, his vision flickering behind a black and red haze.

Just as suddenly the pressure was gone.

They were still falling.

The drive groaned in the stern of the ship and relays chattered. But
it didn't start again. The two men stared at each other, unmoving, for
the unmeasurable unit of time that the ship fell.

As the ship dropped it turned and hit at an angle. The end came for
Jason in an engulfing wave of thunder, shock and pain. Sudden impact
pushed him against the restraining straps, burst them with the inertia
of his body, hurled him across the control room. His last conscious
thought was to protect his head. He was lifting his arm when he struck
the wall.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a cold that is so chilling it is a pain not a temperature.
Cold that slices into the flesh before it numbs and kills.

Jason came to with the sound of his own voice crying hoarsely. The
cold was so great it filled the universe. Cold water he realized as he
coughed it from his mouth and nose. Something was around him and it
took an effort to recognize it as Mikah's arm; he was holding Jason's
face above the surface while he swam. A receding blackness in the
water could only have been the ship, giving off bubbles and groans as
it died. The cold water didn't hurt now and Jason was just relaxing
when he felt something solid under his feet.

"Stand up and walk, curse you," Mikah gasped hoarsely. "I can't ...
carry you ... can't carry myself...."

They floundered out of the water, side by side, four-legged crawling
beasts that could not stand erect. Everything had an unreality to it
and Jason found it hard to think. He should not stop, that he was sure
of, but what else could he do? There was a flickering in the darkness,
a wavering light coming towards them. Jason could say nothing, but he
heard Mikah cry out for help.

Nearer came the light, some kind of a flare or torch, held high. Mikah
pulled to his feet as the flame approached.

It was a nightmare. It wasn't a man but a thing that held the flare. A
thing of angles, sharp corners, fang-faced and horrible. It had a
clubbed extremity it used to strike down Mikah. The tall man fell
wordlessly and the creature turned towards Jason. He had no strength
to fight with, though he struggled to climb to his feet. His fingers
scratched at the frosted sand, but he could not rise, and exhausted
with this last effort he fell forward face down. Unconsciousness
pulled at his brain but he would not submit. The flickering torchlight
came closer and the scuffle of heavy feet in the sand; he could not
have this horror behind him. With the last of his strength he levered
himself over and lay on his back, staring up at the thing that stood
over him, with the darkness of exhaustion filming his eyes.


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.


VI

That evening they built a fire on the beach and Jason sat with his
back to the safety of the sea. He took his helmet off, the thing was
giving him a headache, and called Ijale over to him.

"I hear Ch'aka. I obey."

She ran hurriedly over to him and flopped onto the sand.

"I want to talk to you," Jason said. "And my name is Jason, not
Ch'aka."

"Yes, Ch'aka," she said, darting a quick glance at his exposed face,
then turning away. He grumbled and pushed the basket of _krenoj_ over
to her.

"I can see where it is not going to be an easy thing changing this
social setup. Tell me, do you or any of the others ever have any
desire to be free?"

"What is free?"

"Well ... I suppose that answers my question. Free is what you are
when you are not a slave, or a slave owner, free to go where you want
and do what you want."

"I wouldn't like that." She shivered. "Who would take care of me? How
could I find any _krenoj_? It takes many people together to find
_krenoj_, one alone would starve."

"If you are free, you can combine with other free people and look for
_krenoj_ together."

"That is stupid. Whoever found would eat and not share unless a master
made him. I like to eat."

Jason rasped his sprouting beard. "We all like to eat, but that
doesn't mean we have to be slaves. But I can see that unless there are
some radical changes in this environment I am not going to have much
luck in freeing anyone, and I had better take all the precautions of a
Ch'aka to see that I can stay alive."

He picked up his club and stalked off into the darkness, silently
circling the camp until he found a good-sized knoll with smooth sides.
Working by touch he pulled the little pegs from their bag and planted
them in rows, carefully laying the leather strings in their forked
tops. The ends of the strings were fastened to delicately balanced
steel bells that tinkled at the slightest touch. Thus protected he lay
down in the center of his warning spiderweb and spent a restless
night, half awake, waiting tensely for the bells to ring.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the morning the march continued and they came to the barrier cairn,
and when the slaves stopped Jason urged them past it. They did this
happily, looking forward to witnessing a good fight for possession of
the violated territory. Their hopes were justified when later in the
day the other row of slaves was seen far off to the right, and a
figure detached itself and ran towards them.

"Hate you, Ch'aka!" Fasimba shouted as he ran up, only this time he
meant what he said. "Coming on my ground, I kill you!"

"Not yet," Jason called out. "And hate you, Fasimba, sorry I forgot
the formalities. I don't want any of your land and the old treaty or
whatever it is still holds. I just want to talk to you."

Fasimba stopped, but kept his stone hammer ready, very suspicious.
"You got new voice, Ch'aka."

"I got new Ch'aka, old Ch'aka now pushing up the daisies. I want to
trade back a slave from you and then we'll go."

"Ch'aka fight hard. You must be good fighter Ch'aka." He shook his
hammer angrily. "Not as good as me, Ch'aka!"

"You're the tops, Fasimba, nine slaves out of ten want you for a
master. Look, can't we get to the point, then I'll get my mob out of
here." He looked at the row of approaching slaves, trying to pick out
Mikah. "I want back the slave who had the hole in his head. I'll give
you two slaves in trade, your choice. What do you say to that?"

"Good trade, Ch'aka. You pick one of mine, take the best, I'll take
two of yours. But hole-in-head gone. Too much trouble. Talk all the
time. I got sore foot from kicking him. Got rid of him."

"Did you kill him?"

"Don't waste slave. Traded him to the D'zertanoj. Got arrows. You want
arrows?"

"Not this time, Fasimba, but thanks for the information." He rooted
around in a pouch and pulled out a _krenoj_. "Here, have something to
eat."

"Where you get poisoned _krenoj_?" Fasimba asked with interest. "I
could use a poisoned _krenoj_."

"This isn't poisoned, it's perfectly edible, or at least as edible as
these things ever are."

Fasimba laughed. "You pretty funny, Ch'aka. I give you one arrow for
poisoned _krenoj_."

"You're on," Jason said throwing the _krenoj_ to the ground between
them. "But I tell you it is perfectly good."

"That's what I tell man I give it to. I got good use for a poisoned
_krenoj_." He threw an arrow into the sand away from them and grabbed
up the vegetable as he left.

When Jason picked up the arrow it bent, and he saw that it was rusted
almost completely in two and that the break had been craftily covered
by clay. "That's all right," he called after the retreating slaver,
"just wait until your friend eats the _krenoj_."

       *       *       *       *       *

The march continued, first back to the boundary cairn with the
suspicious Fasimba dogging their steps. Only after Jason and his band
had passed the border did the others return to their normal foraging.
Then began the long walk to the borders of the inland desert. Since
they had to search for _krenoj_ as they went it took them the better
part of three days to reach their destination. Jason merely started
the line in the correct direction, but as soon as he was out of sight
of the sea he had only a rough idea of the correct course, however he
did not confide his ignorance to the slaves and they marched steadily
on, along what was obviously a well-known route to them. Along the way
they collected and consumed a good number of _krenoj_, found two wells
from which they refilled the skin bags, and pointed out a huddled
animal sitting by a hole that Jason, to their un-voiced disgust,
managed to miss completely with a bolt from the crossbow.

On the morning of the third day Jason saw a line of demarcation on the
flattened horizon and before the midday meal they came to a sea of
billowing, bluish-gray sand. The ending of what he had been accustomed
to thinking of as the desert was startling. Beneath their feet were
yellow sand and gravel, while occasional shrubs managed a sickly
existence as did some grass and the life-giving _krenoj_. Animals as
well as men lived here and, ruthless though survival was, they were at
least alive. In the wastes ahead no life was possible or visible,
though there seemed to be no doubt that the D'zertanoj lived there.
This must mean that though it looked unlimited--as Ijale believed it
to be--there were probably arable lands on the other side. Mountains
as well, if they weren't just clouds, since a line of gray peaks could
just be made out on the distant horizon.

"Where do we find the D'zertanoj?" he asked the nearest slave who
merely scowled and looked away. Jason was having a problem with
discipline. The slaves would not do a thing he asked unless he kicked
them. Their conditioning had been so thorough that an order
unaccompanied by a kick just wasn't an order and his continued
reluctance to impose the physical coercion with the spoken command was
just being taken as a sign of weakness. Already some of the burlier
slaves were licking their lips and sizing him up. His efforts to
improve the life of the slaves were being blocked completely by the
slaves themselves. With a mumbled curse at the continued obduracy of
the human race Jason sank the toe of his boot into the man.

[Illustration: Edipon]

"Find them there by big rock," was the immediate response.

There was a dark spot at the desert's edge in the indicated direction
and when they approached Jason saw that it was an outcropping of rock
that had been built up with a wall of bricks or boulders to a uniform
height. A good number of men could be concealed behind that wall and
he was not going to risk his precious slaves or even more precious
skin anywhere near it. At his shout the line halted and settled to the
sand while he stalked a few meters in front, settling his club in his
hand and suspiciously examined the structure.

That there were unseen watchers was proven when a man appeared from
around the corner and walked slowly towards Jason. He was dressed in
loose-fitting robes and carried a basket on one arm, and when he had
reached a point roughly halfway between Jason and the rock he had just
quitted he halted and sat crosslegged in the sand, the basket at his
side. Jason looked carefully in all directions and decided the
position was safe enough. There were no places of concealment where
armed men might have hidden and he had no fear of the single man. Club
ready he walked out and stopped a full three paces from the other.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Welcome, Ch'aka," the man said. "I was afraid we wouldn't be seeing
you again after that little ... difficulty we had."

He remained seated while he talked, stroking the few strands of his
scraggly beard. His head was shaven smooth and as sunburned and
leathery brown as the rest of his face, the most prominent feature of
which was the magnificent prow of a nose that terminated in flaring
nostrils and was used as sturdy support for a pair of handmade
sunglasses. They appeared to be carved completely of bone and fit
tightly to the face, their flat, solid fronts were cut with thin
transverse slashes. This eye protection, the things could only have
been for weak eyes, and the network of wrinkles indicated the man was
quite old and would present no danger to Jason.

"I want something," Jason said, in straightforward, Ch'akaish manner.

"A new voice and a new Ch'aka--I bid you welcome. The old one was a
dog and I hope he died in great pain when you killed him. Now sit
friend Ch'aka and drink with me." He carefully opened the basket and
removed a stone crock and two crockery mugs.

"Where you get poison drink?" Jason asked, remembering his local
manners. This _D'zertano_ was a smart one and had been able to tell
instantly from Jason's voice that there had been a change in slaves.
"And what your name?"

"Edipon," the ancient said as, uninsulted, he put the drinking
apparatus back into the basket. "What is it that you want--within
reason that is? We always need slaves and we are always willing to
trade."

"I want slave you got. I trade you two for one."

The seated man smiled coldly from behind the shelter of his nose. "It
is not necessary to talk as ungrammatically as the coastal barbarians,
since I can tell by your accent that you are a man of education. What
slave is it that you want?"

"The one that you just received from Fasimba. He belongs to me." Jason
abandoned his linguistic ruse and put himself even more on guard,
taking a quick look around at the empty sands. This dried up old bird
was a lot brighter than he looked and he would have to stay on guard.

"Is that all you want?" Edipon asked.

"All I can think of at this moment. You produce this slave and perhaps
we can talk more business."

"I have an even better idea than that."

Edipon's laugh had very dirty overtones and Jason sprang back when the
oldster put two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly between
them. There was the rustle of shifting sand and Jason wheeled to see
men apparently climbing out of the empty desert, pushing back wooden
covers over which the sand had been smoothed. There were six of them,
with shields and clubs, and Jason cursed his stupidity at meeting
Edipon on a spot of the other's choosing. He swung his club behind him
but the oldster was already scampering for the safety of the rock.
Jason howled in anger and ran at the nearest man who was still only
halfway out of his hiding place. The man took Jason's blow on his
upraised shield and was toppled back into the pit by the force of it.
Jason ran on but another was ahead of him, swinging his own war club
in readiness. There was no way around so Jason ran into him at full
speed with all of his pendant teeth and horns gnashing and clattering.
The man fell back under the attack and Jason split his shield with his
club, and would have done further damage except that the other men
arrived at that moment and he had to face them.

It was a brief and wicked battle, with Jason giving just a little more
than he received. Two of the attackers were down and a third holding
his cracked head when the weight of numbers carried Jason to the
ground. He called to his slaves for aid, then cursed them when they
only remained seated, while his arms were pinioned with rope and his
weapons stripped from his body. One of the victors waved to the slaves
who now stood and docilely marched into the desert. Jason was dragged,
snarling with rage, in the same direction.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a wide opening in the desert-facing side of the wall and
once through it Jason's anger instantly vanished. Here was one of the
_caroj_ that Ijale had told him about: there could be no doubt of it.
He could now understand how, to her uneducated eye, there could exist
an uncertainty as to whether the thing was an animal or not. The
vehicle was a good ten meters long, shaped roughly like a boat, and
bore on the front a large and obviously false animal head covered with
fur and resplendent with rows of carved teeth and glistening crystal
eyes. There were hide coverings and not-too realistic legs hanging
about the thing, surely not enough camouflage to fool a sophisticated
six-year old.

[Illustration]

This sort of disguise might be good enough to take in the ignorant
savages, but the same civilized child would recognize this as a
vehicle as soon as he saw the six large wheels below. They were cut
with deep treads and made from some resilient looking substance. No
motive power was visible, but Jason almost hooted with joy at the
prominent stink of burnt fuel. This crude looking contrivance had some
artificial source of power, which might be the product of a local
industrial revolution or have been purchased from off-world traders.
Either possibility offered the chance of eventual escape from this
nameless planet.

The slaves, some of them cringing with terror of the unknown, were
kicked up the gangplank and into the _caroj_. Four of the huskies who
had subdued and bound Jason carried him up and dumped him onto the
deck where he lay quietly and examined what could be seen of the
desert-vehicle's mechanism. A post projected from the front of the
deck and one of the men fitted what could only have been a tiller
handle over the squared top of it. If this monolithic apparatus
steered with the front pair of wheels it must be driven with the rear,
so Jason flopped around on the deck until he could look towards the
stern. A cabin, the width of the deck, was situated here, windowless
and with a single inset door fitted with a grand selection of locks
and bolts. Any doubt that this was the engine room was displaced by
the black metal smokestack that rose up through the cabin roof.

"We are leaving," Edipon screeched and waved his thin arms in the air.
"Bring in the entranceway. Narsisi stand forward to indicate the way
to the _caroj_. Now--all pray as I go into the shrine to induce the
sacred powers to move us towards Putl'ko." He started towards the
cabin, then stopped to point to one of the club bearers. "Erebo you
lazy sod, did you remember to fill the watercup of the gods this time,
because they grow thirsty?"

"I filled it, I filled it," Erebo muttered, chewing on a looted
_krenoj_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Preparations made, Edipon went into the recessed doorway and pulled a
concealing curtain over it. There was much clanking and rattling as
the locks and bolts were opened and he let himself inside. Within a
few minutes a black cloud of greasy smoke rolled out of the smokestack
and was whipped away by the wind. Almost an hour passed before the
sacred powers were ready to move, and they announced their willingness
to proceed by screaming and blowing their white breath up in the air.
Four of the slaves screamed counterpoint and fainted, while the rest
looked as if they would be happier off dead. Jason had had some
experience with primitive machines before so the safety valve on the
boiler came as no great surprise. He was also prepared when the
vehicle shuddered and began to move slowly out into the desert. From
the amount of smoke and the quantity of steam escaping from under the
stern he didn't think the engine was very efficient, but primitive as
it was it moved the _caroj_ and its load of passengers across the sand
at a creeping yet steady pace.

There were more screams from the slaves, and a few tried to leap over
the side but were clubbed down. The robe-wrapped D'zertanoj were
firmly working their way through the ranks of the captives, pouring
ladlefuls of dark liquid down their throats. The first ones to receive
it were already slumped unconscious or dead, though the chances were
better that they were unconscious since there was no reason for their
captors to kill them after going to such lengths to get them in the
first place. Jason believed this, but the terrified slaves did not
have the solace of his philosophy so struggled on, thinking that they
were fighting for their lives. When Jason's turn came he did not
submit meekly, in spite of his beliefs, and managed to bite some
fingers and kick one man in the stomach before they sat on him, held
his nose and poured a measure of the burning liquid down his throat.
It hurt and he was dizzy, and he tried to will himself to throw up,
but this was the last thing that he remembered.


VII

"Drink some more of this," the voice said, and cold water splashed on
Jason's face and some of it trickled down his throat making him cough.
Something hard was pressing into his back and his wrists hurt. Memory
seeped back slowly, the fight, the capture and the potion that had
been forced upon him. When he opened his eyes he saw a flickering
yellow lamp overhead, hung from a chain. He blinked at it and tried to
gather enough energy to sit up. A familiar face swam in front of the
light and Jason squinted his eyes at it and groaned.

"Is that you Mikah--or are you just part of a nightmare?"

"There is no escape from justice, Jason. It is I, and I have some
grave questions to put to you."

Jason groaned again. "You're real all right. Even in a nightmare I
wouldn't dare dream up any lines like that. But before the questions,
how about telling me a thing or two about the local setup, you should
know something since you have been a slave of the D'zertanoj longer
than I have." Jason realized that the pain in his wrists came from
heavy iron shackles. A chain passed through them and was stapled to a
thick wooden bar on which his head had been resting. "Why the
chains--and what is the local hospitality like?"

Mikah resisted the invitation to impart any vital information and
returned irresistibly to his own topic.

"When I saw you last you were a slave of Ch'aka, and tonight you were
brought in with the other slaves of Ch'aka and chained to the bar
while you were unconscious. There was an empty place next to mine and
I told them I would tend you if they placed you there, and they did.
Now there is something I must know. Before they stripped you I saw
that you were wearing the armor and helmet of Ch'aka. Where is the
man--what happened to him?"

"Me Ch'aka," Jason rasped, and burst out coughing from the dryness in his
throat. He took a long drink of water from the bowl. "You sound very
vindictive, Mikah you old fraud. Where is all the turn-the-other-cheek
stuff now? Don't tell me you could possibly hate the man just because he
hit you on the head, fractured your skull and sold you down the river as a
slave reject? In case you have been brooding over this injustice you can
now be cheered because the evil Ch'aka is no more. He is buried in the
trackless wastes and after all the applicants were sifted out I got the
job."

"You killed him?"

"In a word--yes. And don't think that it was easy since he had all the
advantages and I possessed only my native ingenuity, which luckily
proved to be enough. It was touch and go for a while because when I
tried to assassinate him in his sleep--"

"You _what_?" Mikah Samon hissed.

"Got to him at night. You don't think anyone in his right mind would
tackle a monster like that face-to-face do you? Though it ended up
that way, since he had some neat gadgets for keeping track of people
in the dark. Briefly, we fought, I won, I became Ch'aka, though my
reign was neither long nor noble. I followed you as far as the desert
where I was neatly trapped by a shrewd old bird name of Edipon who
demoted me back to the ranks and took away all my slaves as well. Now
that's my story. So tell me yours, where we are, what goes on here?"

"Assassin! Slave holder!" Mikah reared back, as far as he could under
the restraint of the chain, and pointed the finger of judgment at
Jason. "Two more charges must be added to your role of infamy. I
sicken myself, Jason, that I could ever have felt sympathy for you and
tried to help you. I will still help you, but only to stay alive so
that you may be taken back to Cassylia for trial and execution."

[Illustration]

"I like that example of fair and impartial justice--trial _and_
execution." Jason coughed again and drained the bowl of water. "Didn't
you ever hear of presumed innocence until proven guilty? It only
happens to be the mainstay of all jurisprudence. And how could you
possibly justify trying me on Cassylia for actions that occurred on
this planet--that aren't crimes here? That's like taking a cannibal
away from his tribe and executing him for anthropophagy."

"What would be wrong with that? The eating of human flesh is a crime
so loathsome I shudder to think of it. Of course a man who does that
must be executed."

"If he slips in the back door and eats one of your relatives, you
certainly have grounds for action. But not if he joins the rest of his
jolly tribe for a good roast of enemy. Don't you see the obvious point
here--that human conduct can only be judged in relation to its
environment? Conduct is relative. The cannibal in his society is just
as moral as the churchgoer in yours."

"Blasphemer! A crime is a crime! There are moral laws that stand above
all human society."

"Oh no there are not, that's just the point where your medieval
morality breaks down. All laws and ideas are historical and relative,
not absolute. They are relevant to their particular time and place and
taken out of context they lose their importance. Within the context of
this grubby society I acted in a most straightforward and honest
manner. I attempted to assassinate my master--which is the only way an
ambitious boy can get ahead in this hard world, and which was
undoubtedly the way Ch'aka himself got the job in the first place.
Assassination didn't work but combat did, and the results were the
same. Once in power I took good care of my slaves, though of course
they didn't appreciate it since they didn't want good care, they only
wanted my job, that being the law of the land. The only thing I really
did wrong was to not live up to my obligations as a slave holder and
keep them marching up and down the beaches forever. Instead I came
looking for you and was trapped and broken back to slavery where I
belong for pulling such a stupid trick."

The door crashed open and harsh sunlight streamed into the windowless
building. "On your feet slaves!" a D'zertano shouted in through the
opening.

A chorus of shufflings and groans broke out as the men stirred to
life. Jason could see now that he was one of twenty slaves shackled to
the long bar, apparently the entire trunk of a good-sized tree. The
man chained at the far end seemed to be a leader of sorts because he
cursed and goaded the others to life. When they were all standing he
snapped his commands in a hectoring tone of voice.

"Come on, come on, first come best food. And don't forget your bowls,
put them away so they can't drop out, remember nothing to eat or drink
all day unless you have a bowl. And let's work together today,
everyone pull his weight, that's the only way to do it. That goes for
all you men, specially you new men. Give them a day's work here and
they give you a day's food...."

"Oh shut up!" someone shouted.

"... And you can't complain about that," the strawboss whined on,
unperturbed. "Now altogether ... _one_ ... bend down and get your
hands around the bar, get a good grip and ... _two_ ... lift it clear
of the ground, that's the way. And ... _three_ ... stand up and out
the door we go."

They shuffled out into the sunlight and the cold wind of dawn bit
through his Pyrran coverall and the remnants of Ch'aka's leather
trappings that Jason had been allowed to keep. His captors had torn
off the claw-studded feet but not bothered the wrappings underneath,
so they hadn't found his boots. This was the only bright spot on an
otherwise unlimited vista of blackest gloom. Jason tried to be
thankful for small blessings, but only shivered some more. As soon as
possible this situation had to be changed since he had already served
his term as slave on this backwoods planet and was cut out for better
things.

On order the slaves lined up against the walls of the yard. Presenting
their bowls like scruffy penitents they accepted dippers of lukewarm
soup from another slave who pushed along a wheeled tub of the stuff:
he was chained to the tub. Jason's appetite vanished when he tasted
the sludge. It was _krenoj_ soup, and the desert tubers tasted even
worse--he hadn't thought it was possible--when served up in a broth.
But survival was more important than fastidiousness, so he gulped the
evil stuff down.

       *       *       *       *       *

Breakfast over they marched out the gate into another compound and
fascinated interest displaced all of Jason's concerns. In the center
of the yard was a large capstan into which the first group of slaves
were already fitting the end of their bar. Jason's group, and the two
others, shuffled into position and seated their bars, making a four
spoked wheel out of the capstan. An overseer shouted and the slaves
groaned and threw their weight against the bars until they shuddered
and began to turn, then trudging slowly they kept the wheel moving.
Once this slogging labor was under way Jason turned his attention to
the crude mechanism that they were powering.

A vertical shaft from the capstan turned a creaking wooden wheel that
set a series of leather belts into motion. Some of them vanished
through openings into a large stone building, while the strongest
strap of all turned the rocker arm of what could only be a
counterbalanced pump. This all seemed like a highly inefficient way to
go about pumping water since there certainly must be natural springs
and lakes somewhere around. The pungent smell that filled the yard was
hauntingly familiar, and Jason had just reached the conclusion that
water couldn't be the object of their labors when a throaty gurgling
came from the standpipe of the pump and a thick black stream bubbled
out.

"Petroleum--of course!" Jason enthused out loud, then bent his
attentions to pushing when the overseer gave him an ugly look and
cracked his whip menacingly.

This was the secret of the D'zertanoj, and the source of their power.
Mountains were visible nearby, and hills, towering above the
surrounding walls. The captured slaves had been drugged so they would
not even know in which direction they had been brought to this hidden
site, or how long the trip was. Here in this guarded valley they
labored to pump the crude oil that their masters used to power their
big desert wagons. Or did they use crude oil for this? The petroleum
was gurgling out in a solid stream now, and running down an open
trough that vanished through the wall into the same building as the
turning belts. And what barbaric devilishness went on in there? A
thick chimney crowned the building and produced clouds of black smoke,
while from the various openings in the wall came a tremendous stench
that threatened to lift the top off his head.

At the same moment that he realized what was going on in the building
a guarded door was opened and Edipon came out, blowing his sizable
nose in a scrap of rag. The creaking wheel turned and when its
rotation brought Jason around again he called out to him.

"Hey, Edipon, come over here. I want to talk to you. I'm the former
Ch'aka, in case you don't recognize me out of uniform."

Edipon gave him one look, then turned away dabbing at his nose. It was
obvious that slaves held no interest for him, no matter what their
position had been before their fall. The slave-driver ran over with a
roar, raising his whip, while the slow rotation of the wheel carried
Jason away. He shouted back over his shoulder.

"Listen to me--I know a lot and can help you." Only a turned back for
an answer and the whip was already whistling down. It was time for the
hard sell. "You had better hear me--because I know that _what comes
out first is best_. Yeow!" This last was involuntary as the whip
landed.

Jason's words were without meaning to the slaves as well as the
overseer who was raising his whip for another blow, but their impact
on Edipon was as dramatic as if he had stepped on a hot coal. He
shuddered to a halt and wheeled about, and even at this distance Jason
could see that a sickly gray tone had replaced his normal browned
color of his skin.

"_Stop the wheel!_" he shouted.

       *       *       *       *       *

This unexpected command drew the startled attention of everyone. The
gape-mouthed overseer lowered his whip while the slaves stumbled and
halted and the wheel groaned to a stop. In the sudden silence Edipon's
steps echoed loudly as he ran to Jason, halting a hand's breadth away,
his lips drawn back from his teeth with tension as if he were prepared
to bite.

"What was that you said?" He hurled the words at Jason while his
fingers half-plucked a knife from his belt.

Jason smiled, looking and acting calmer than he felt. His barb had
gone home, but unless he proceeded carefully so would Edipon's
knife--into his stomach. This was obviously a very sensitive topic.

"You heard what I said--and I don't think you want me to repeat it in
front of all these strangers. I know what happens here because I come
from a place far away where we do this kind of thing all the time. I
can help you. I can show you how to get more of the best, and how to
make your _caroj_ work better. Just try me. Only unchain me from this
bar first and let's get to some place private where we can have a nice
chat."

Edipon's thoughts were obvious. He chewed his lip and looked hotly at
Jason, fingering the edge of his knife. Jason only returned a smile of
pure innocence and tapped his fingers happily on the bar, just marking
time while he waited to be released. Yet in spite of the cold there
was a rivulet of sweat trickling down his spine. He was gambling
everything on Edipon's intelligence, that the man's curiosity would
overcome the immediate desire to silence the slave who knew so much
about things so secret, hoping that he would remember that slaves
could always be killed, and that it wouldn't hurt to ask a few
questions first. Curiosity won and the knife dropped back into the
sheath while Jason let his breath out in a relieved sigh. It had been
entirely too close, even for a professional gambler; his own life on
the board was a little higher stakes than he enjoyed playing for.

"Release him from the bar and bring him to me," Edipon ordered, then
strode agitatedly away. The other slaves watched wide-eyed as the
blacksmith was rushed out, and with much confusion and shouted orders
Jason's chain was cut from the bar where it joined the heavy staple.

"What are you doing?" Mikah asked, and one of the guards backhanded
him to the ground. Jason just smiled and touched his finger to his
lips as his chain was released and they led him away. He was free from
bondage and he would stay that way if he could convince Edipon that he
would be better off in some capacity other than dumb labor.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room they led him to contained the first touches of decoration or
self-indulgence that he had seen on this planet. The furniture was
carefully constructed, with an occasional bit of carving to brighten
it, and there was a woven cover on the bed. Edipon stood by a table,
tapping his fingers nervously on the dark polished surface. "Lock him
up," he ordered the guards, and Jason was secured to a sturdy ringbolt
that projected from the wall. As soon as the guards were gone he stood
before Jason and drew his knife. "Tell me what you know or I will kill
you at once."

"My past is an open book to you, Edipon. I come from a land where we
know all the secrets of nature--"

"What is the name of this land? Are you a spy from Appsala?"

"I couldn't very well be one since I have never heard of the place."
Jason pulled at his lower lip, wondering just how intelligent Edipon
was, and just how frank he could be with him. This was no time to get
tangled up in lies about planetary geography: it might be best to try
him on a small dose of the truth. "If I told you I came from another
planet, another world in the sky up among the stars, would you believe
me?"

"Perhaps. There are many old legends that our forefathers came from a
world beyond the sky, but I have always dismissed this as religious
drivel, fit only for women."

"In this case the girls happen to be right. Your planet was settled by
men whose ships crossed the emptiness of space as your _caroj_ pass
over the desert. Your people have forgotten about that and lost the
science and knowledge you once had, but in other worlds the knowledge
is still held."

"Madness!"

"Not at all, it is science, though many times confused as being the
same thing. I'll prove my point. You know that I could never have been
inside your mysterious building out there, and I imagine you can be
sure no one has told me its secrets. Yet I'll bet you that I can
describe fairly accurately what is in there--not from seeing the
machinery, but from knowing what must be done to oil in order to get
the products you need. Do you want to hear?"

"Proceed," Edipon said, sitting on a corner of the table and balancing
the knife loosely in his palm.

"I don't know what you call it, the device, but in the trade it is a
pot still used for fractional distillation. Your crude oil runs into a
tank of some kind, and you pipe it from there to a retort, some big
vessel that you can seal airtight. Once it is closed you light a fire
under the thing and try to get all the oil to an even temperature. A
gas rises from the oil and you take it off through a pipe and run it
through a condenser, probably more pipe with water running over it.
Then you put a bucket under the open end of the pipe and out of it
drips the juice that you burn in your _caroj_ to make them move."

Edipon's eyes opened wider and wider while Jason talked until they
stuck out of his head like boiled eggs. "Demon!" he screeched and
tottered towards Jason with the knife extended. "You couldn't have
seen, not through stone walls, yet only my family have seen, no
others--I'll swear to that!"

"Keep cool, Edipon, I told you that we have been doing this stuff for
years in my country." He balanced on one foot, ready for a kick at the
knife in case the old man's nerves did not settle down. "I'm not out
to steal your secrets, in fact they are pretty small potatoes where I
come from since every farmer has a still for cooking up his own mash
and saving on taxes. I'll bet I can even put in some improvements for
you, sight unseen. How do you monitor the temperature on your cooking
brew? Do you have thermometers?"

"What are thermometers?" Edipon asked, forgetting the knife for the
moment, drawn on by the joys of a technical discussion.

"That's what I thought. I can see where your bootleg joyjuice is going
to take a big jump in quality, if you have anyone here who can do some
simple glassblowing. Though it might be easier to rig up a coiled
bi-metallic strip. You're trying to boil off your various fractions,
and unless you keep an even and controlled temperature you are going
to have a mixed brew. The thing you want for your engines are the most
volatile fractions, the liquids that boil off first like gasoline and
benzene. After that you raise the temperature and collect kerosene for
your lamps and so forth right on down the line until you have a nice
mass of tar left to pave your roads with. How does that sound to you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Edipon had forced himself into calmness, though a jumping muscle in
his cheek betrayed his inner tension. "What you have described is the
truth, though you were wrong on some small things. But I am not
interested in your thermometer nor in improving our water-of-power, it
has been good enough for my family for generations and it is good
enough for me...."

"I bet you think that line is original?"

"... There is something that you might be able to do that would bring
you rich rewards. We can be generous when needs be. You have seen our
_caroj_ and ridden on one, and seen me go into the shrine to intercede
with the sacred powers to make us move. Can you tell me what power
moves the _caroj_?"

"I hope this is the final exam, Edipon, because you are stretching my
powers of extrapolation. Stripping away all the _shrines_ and _sacred
powers_ I would say that you go into the engine room to do a piece of
work with very little praying involved. There could be a number of
ways of moving those barns, but let's think of the simplest. This is
top of the head now, so no penalties if I miss any of the fine points.

"Internal combustion is out, I doubt if you have the technology to
handle it, plus the fact there was a lot to do about the water tank
and it took you almost an hour to get under way. That sounds like you
were getting up a head of steam--the safety valve! I forgot about
that. So it is steam. You go in, lock the door of course, then open a
couple of valves until the fuel drips into the firebox, then you light
it. Maybe you have a pressure gauge, or maybe you just wait until the
safety valve pops to tell you if you have a head of steam. Which can
be dangerous since a sticking valve could blow the whole works right
over the mountain.

"Once you have the steam you crack a valve to let it into the
cylinders and get the thing moving. After that you just enjoy the
trip, of course making sure the water is feeding to your boiler all
right, that your pressure stays up, your fire is hot enough, all your
bearings are lubricated and the rest...."

Jason looked on astounded as Edipon did a little jig around the room,
holding his robe up above his bony knees. Bouncing with excitement he
jabbed his knife into the table top and rushed over to Jason and
grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him until his chain rattled.

"Do you know what you have done?" he asked. "Do you know what you have
said?"

"I know well enough. Does this mean that I have passed the exam? Was I
right?"

"I don't know if you are right or not. I have never seen the inside of
one of the Appsalan devil-boxes." He danced around the room again.
"You know more about their ... what do you call it, _engine_ ... than
I do. I have only spent my life tending them and cursing the people
of Appsala who keep the secret from us. But you will reveal it to us!
We will build our own engines and if they want water-of-power they
will have to pay dearly for it."

"Would you mind being a little bit clearer," Jason pleaded. "I have
never heard anything so confused in my entire life."

"I will show you, man from a far world, and you will reveal the
Appsalan secrets to us. I see the dawn of a new day for Putl'ko
arriving." He opened the door and shouted for the guards, and for his
son, Narsisi, who arrived as they were unlocking Jason who recognized
him as the same droop-eyed and sleepy looking D'zertano who had been
helping Edipon to drive their ungainly vehicle.

"Seize this chain my son and keep your club ready to kill this slave
if he makes any attempt to escape. Otherwise do not harm him, for he
is very valuable. Come."

He tugged on the chain, but Jason only dug his heels in and did not
move. They looked at him, astonished.

"Just a few things before we go. The man who is to bring the new day
to Putl'ko is not a slave, let us get that straight before this
operation goes any further. We'll work out something with chains or
guards so I can't escape, but the slavery thing is out."

"But--you are not one of us, therefore you must be a slave."

"I've just added a third category to your social order. Employee.
Though reluctant, I am still an employee, skilled labor, and I intend
to be treated that way. Figure it out for yourself. Kill a slave and
what do you lose? Very little if there is another slave in the pens
that can push in the same place. But kill me and what do you get?
Brains on your club--and they do you no good at all there."

"Say, Dad, does he mean I can't kill him?" Narsisi looked puzzled as
well as sleepy.

"No, he doesn't mean that. He means if we kill him there is no one else
that can do the work he is to do for us. I can understand him and I do not
like it. There are only slaves and slavers, anything else is against the
natural order. But he has us trapped between _satano_ and the sand-storm
so we must allow him some freedoms. Bring the slave now ... I mean the
employee ... and we will see if he can do the things he has promised. If
he does not, _I_ will have the pleasure of killing him because I do not
like his revolutionary ideas."

       *       *       *       *       *

They marched single file to a locked and guarded building with immense
doors, which were pulled open to reveal the massive forms of seven
_caroj_.

"Look at them," Edipon hissed and tugged at his nose. "The finest and
most beautiful of constructions, striking fear into our enemies'
hearts, carrying us fleetly across the sands, bearing on their backs
immense loads and only three of the things are able to move."

"Engine trouble?" Jason asked lightly.

[Illustration]

Edipon grumbled, cursed and fumed under his breath and led the way to
an inner courtyard where stood four immense black boxes painted with
death-heads, splintered bones, fountains of blood and cabalistic
symbols all of a sinister appearance.

"Those swine in Appsala take our water-of-power and give nothing in
return. Oh yes, they let us use their engines, but after running for a
few months the cursed things stop and will not go again, then we must
bring them back to the city to exchange for a new one, and pay again
and again."

"A nice racket," Jason said, looking at the sealed covering on the
engines. "Why don't you just crack into them and fix them yourself,
they can't be very complex."

"That is death!" Edipon gasped, and both D'zertanoj recoiled from the
boxes at the thought. "We have tried that, in my father's father's
day, since we are not superstitious like the slaves and know that
these are man-made not god-made. However the tricky serpents of
Appsala hide their secrets with immense cunning. If any attempt is
made to break the covering horrible death leaks out and fills the air.
Men who breathe the air die, and even those who are solely touched by
it develop immense blisters and die in pain. The man of Appsala
laughed when this happened to our people and after that raised the
price even higher."

Jason circled one of the boxes, examining it with interest, trailing
Narsisi behind him at the end of the chain. The thing was higher than
his head and almost twice as long. A heavy shaft emerged through
openings on opposite sides, probably the power takeoff for the wheels.
Through an opening in the side he could see inset handles and two
small colored disks, and above this were three funnel-shaped openings
shaped and painted like mouths. By standing on tiptoe Jason looked on
top but there was only a flanged, sooty opening that must be for
attachment of a smokestack. There was only one more opening, a
smallish one in the rear, and no other controls on the garish
container.

"I'm beginning to get the picture, but you will have to tell me how
you work the controls."

"Death before that," Narsisi shouted. "Only my family--"

"Will you shut up!" Jason shouted right back. "Remember? You're not
allowed to browbeat the help anymore. There are no secrets here. Not
only that, but I probably know more about this thing than you do just
by looking at it. Oil, water and fuel go in these three openings, you
poke a light in somewhere, probably in that smoky hole under the
controls, open one of those valves for fuel supply, another one is to
make the engine go slower and faster, and the third is for your water
feed. The disks are indicators of some kind." Narsisi paled and
stepped back. "So keep the trap shut while I talk to your dad."

"It is as you say," Edipon pointed. "The mouths must always be filled
and woebetide if they shall go empty for the powers will halt or
worse. Fire goes in here as you guessed, and when the green finger
comes forward this lever may be turned for motion. The next is for
great speed or going slow. The very last is under the sign of the red
finger, which when it points indicates need, and the handle must be
turned and held until the finger retires. White breath comes from the
opening in back. That is all there is."

"About what I expected," Jason muttered and examined the container
wall, rapping it with his knuckles until it boomed. "They give you the
minimum of controls to run the thing, so you won't learn anything
about the basic principles involved. Without the theory you would
never know what the handles control, or that the green indicator comes
out when you have operating pressure or the red one when the water
level is low in the boiler. Very neat. And the whole thing sealed up
in a can and booby-trapped in case you have any ideas of going into
business for yourself.

"The cover sounds like it is double walled, and from your description
I would say that it has one of the vesicant war gases, like mustard
gas, sealed inside there in liquid form. Anyone who tries to cut their
way in will quickly forget their ambitions after a dose of that. Yet
there must be a way to get inside the case and service the engine,
they aren't just going to throw them away after a few months' use. And
considering the level of technology displayed by this monstrosity I
should be able to find the tricks and get around any other built-in
traps. I think I'll take the job."

"Very well, begin."

"Wait a minute, boss, you still have a few things to learn about hired
labor. There are always certain working conditions and agreements
involved, all of which I'll be happy to list for you."


VIII

"What I do not understand is why you must have the other slave?"
Narsisi whined. "To have the woman of course is natural, as well as to
have quarters of your own, my father has given his permission. But he
also said that I and my brothers are to help you, that the secrets of
the engine are to be revealed to no one else."

"Then trot right over to him and get permission for the slave Mikah to
join me in the work. You can explain that he comes from the same land
that I do, and that your secrets are mere children's toys to him. And
if dad wants any other reasons tell him that I need skilled aid,
someone who knows how to handle tools and who can be trusted to follow
directions exactly as given. You and your brothers have entirely too
many ideas of your own about how things should be done, and a tendency
to leave details up to the gods and have a good bash with the hammer
if things don't work the way they should."

Narsisi retired, seething and mumbling to himself while Jason huddled
over the oil stove planning the next step. It had taken most of the
day to lay down logs for rollers and to push the sealed engine out
into the sandy valley, far from the well site; open space was needed
for any experiments where a mistake could release a cloud of war gas.
Even Edipon had finally seen the sense of this, though all of his
tendencies were to conduct the experiments with great secretiveness
behind locked doors. He had granted permission only after skin walls
had been erected to form an enclosure that could be guarded; it was
only incidental that they acted as a much-appreciated windbreak.

And after much argument the dangling chains and shackles had been
removed from Jason's arms and light-weight leg-irons substituted. He
had to shuffle when he walked but his arms were completely free, a
great improvement over the chains, even though one of the brothers
kept watch with a cocked crossbow as long as Jason wasn't fastened
down. Now he had to get some tools and some idea of the technical
knowledge of these people before he could proceed, which would
necessarily entail one more battle over their precious secrets.

"Come on," he called to his guard, "let's find Edipon and give his
ulcers another twinge."

After his first enthusiasm the leader of the D'zertanoj was getting
very little pleasure out of his new project.

"You have quarters of your own," he grumbled, "and the slave woman to
cook for you, and I have just given permission for the other slave to
help you. Now more requests--do you want to drain all the blood from
my body?"

"Let's not dramatize too much. I simply want some tools to get on with
my work, and a peek at your machine shop or wherever it is you do your
mechanical work. I have to have some idea of the way you people solve
mechanical problems before I can go to work on that box of tricks out
there in the desert."

"Entrance is forbidden--"

"Regulations are snapping like straws today, so we might as well go on
and finish off a few more. Will you lead the way?"

The guards were reluctant to open the refinery building gates to
Jason, and there was much rattling of keys and worried looks. A brace
of elderly D'zertanoj, stinking of oil fumes, emerged from the
interior and joined in a shouted argument with Edipon whose will
finally prevailed. Chained again, and guarded like a murderer, Jason
was begrudgingly led into the dark interior, the contents of which was
depressingly anticlimactic.

"Really from rubeville," Jason sneered and kicked at the boxful of
hand-forged and clumsy tools. The work was of the crudest, the product
of a sort of neolithic machine age. The distilling retort had been
laboriously formed from sheet copper and clumsily riveted together. It
leaked mightily as did the soldered seams on the hand-formed pipe.
Most of the tools were blacksmith's tongs and hammers for heating and
beating out shapes on the anvil. The only things that gladdened
Jason's heart were the massive drill press and lathe that worked off
the slave-power drive belts. In the tool holder of the lathe was
clamped a chip of some hard mineral that did a good enough job of
cutting the forged iron and low-carbon steel. Even more cheering was
the screw-thread advance on the cutting head that was used to produce
the massive nuts and bolts that secured the _caroj_ wheels to their
shafts. It could have been worse. Jason sorted out the smallest and
handiest tools and put them aside for his own use in the morning. The
light was almost gone and there would be no more work this day.

       *       *       *       *       *

They left, in armed procession, as they came, and a brace of brothers
showed him to the kennellike room that was to be his private quarters.
The heavy bolt thudded shut in the door behind him and he winced at
the thick fumes of half-burnt kerosene through which the light of the
single-wick lamp barely penetrated. Ijale crouched over the small oil
stove cooking something in a pottery bowl. She looked up and smiled
hesitatingly at Jason, then turned back to the stove. Jason walked
over, sniffed and shuddered.

"What a feast! _Krenoj_ soup, and I suppose followed by fresh _krenoj_
and _krenoj_ salad. Tomorrow I see about getting a little variety into
the diet."

"Ch'aka is great," she whispered without looking up. "Ch'aka is
powerful...."

"Jason is the name, I lost the Ch'aka job when they took the uniform
away."

"... Jason is powerful to work charms on the D'zertanoj and makes them
do what he will. His slave thanks you."

He lifted her chin and the dumb obedience in her eyes made him wince.
"Can't we forget about the slavery bit? We are in this thing together
and we'll get out of it together."

"We will escape, I knew it. You will kill all the D'zertanoj and
release your slaves and lead us home again where we can march and find
_krenoj_ far from this terrible place."

"Some girls are sure easy to please. That is roughly what I had in
mind, except when we get out of here we are going in the other
direction, as far away from your _krenoj_ crowd as I can get."

Ijale listened attentively, stirring the soup with one hand and
scratching inside her leather wrappings with the other. Jason found
himself scratching as well, and realized from sore spots on his hide
that he had been doing an awful lot of this since he had been dragged
out of the ocean of this inhospitable planet.

"Enough is enough!" he exploded and went over and hammered on the
door. "This place is a far cry from civilization as I know it, but
that is no reason why we can't be as comfortable as possible." Chains
and bolts rattled outside the door and Narsisi pushed his gloom-ridden
face in.

"Why do you cry out? What is wrong?"

"I need some water, lots of it."

"But you have water," Narsisi said, puzzled, and pointed to a stone
crock in the corner. "There is water there enough for days."

"By your standards, Nars old boy, not mine. I want at least ten times
as much as that and I want it now. And some soap, if there is such
stuff in this barbaric place."

There was a good deal of argument involved, but Jason finally got his
way with the water by explaining it was needed for religious rites to
make sure that he would not fail in the work tomorrow. It came in a
varied collection of containers along with a shallow bowl full of
powerful soft soap.

"We're in business," he chortled. "Take your clothes off, I have a
surprise for you."

"Yes, Jason," Ijale said, smiling happily.

"You're going to get a bath. Do you know what a bath is?"

"No," she said, and shuddered. "It sounds evil."

"Over here and off with the clothes," he ordered, poking at a hole in
the floor. "This should serve as a drain, at least the water went away
when I poured some into it."

The water was warm from the stove, yet Ijale still crouched against
the wall and shuddered when he poured it over her. She screamed when
he rubbed the slippery soap into her hair, and he continued with his
hand over her mouth so that she wouldn't bring in the guards. He
rubbed the soap into his own head, too, and it tingled delightfully as
it soaked through to his scalp. Some of it was in his ears, muffling
them, so the first intimation he had that the door was opened was the
sound of Mikah's hoarse shout. He was standing in the doorway, finger
pointed and shaking with wrath. Narsisi was standing behind him,
peering over his shoulder with fascination at this weird religious
rite.

"Degradation!" Mikah thundered. "You force this poor creature to bend
to your will, humiliate her, strip her clothes from her and gaze upon
her though you are not united in lawful wedlock." He shielded his eyes
from sight with a raised arm. "You are evil, Jason, a demon of evil
and must be brought to justice--"

"_Out!_" Jason roared, and spun Mikah about and started him through
the door with one of his practiced Ch'aka kicks. "The only evil here
is in your mind, you snooping scut. I'm giving the girl the first
scrubbing of her life and you should be giving me a medal for bringing
sanitation to the natives instead of howling like that." He pushed
them both out the door and shouted at Narsisi. "I wanted this slave,
but not _now_! Lock him up until morning then bring him back." He
slammed the door and made a mental note to get hold of a bolt to be
placed on this side as well.

       *       *       *       *       *

There were more _krenoj_ for breakfast but Jason was feeling too good
physically to mind. He was scrubbed raw and clean and the itching was
gone even from his sprouting beard. The metalcloth of his Pyrran
coverall had dried almost as soon as it had been washed so he was
wearing clean clothes as well. Ijale was still recovering from the
traumatic effects of her bath, but she looked positively attractive
with her skin cleaned and her hair washed and combed a bit. He would
have to find some of the local cloth for her since it would be a shame
to ruin the good work by letting her get back into the badly cured
skins she was used to wearing. It was with a sensation of positive
good feeling that he bellowed for the door to be opened and stamped
through the cool morning to his place of labor. Mikah was already
there, looking scruffy and angry as he rattled his chains; Jason gave
him the friendliest of smiles that only rubbed salt into the other's
moral wounds.

"Leg-irons for him, too," Jason ordered, "And do it fast. We have a
big job to do today." He turned back to the sealed engine, rubbing his
hands together with anticipation.

The concealing hood was made of thin metal that could not hide many
secrets. He carefully scratched away some of the paint and discovered
a crimped and soldered joint where the sides met, but no other
revealing marks. After an hour spent tapping all over with his ear
pressed to the metal he was sure that the hood was just what he had
thought it was when he first examined the thing--a double-walled metal
container filled with liquid. Puncture it and you were dead. It was
there merely to hide the secrets of the engine, and served no other
function. Yet it had to be passed to service the steam engine--or did
it? The construction was roughly cubical, and the hood covered only
five sides. What about the sixth, the base?

"Now you're thinking, Jason," he chortled to himself, and knelt down
to examine it. A wide flange, apparently of cast iron, projected all
around, and was penetrated by four large bolt holes. The protective
casing seemed to be soldered to the base, but there must be stronger
concealed attachments because it would not move even after he
carefully scratched away some of the solder at the base. Therefore the
answer simply had to be on the sixth side.

"Over here, Mikah," he called, and the man detached himself
reluctantly from the warmth of the stove and shuffled up. "Come close
and look at this medieval motive-power while we talk, as if we are
discussing business. Are you going to co-operate with me?"

"I do not want to, Jason. I am afraid that you will soil me with your
touch, as you have others."

"Well you're not so clean now--"

"I do not mean physically."

"Well I do. You could certainly do with a bath and a deep shampoo. I'm
not worried about the state of your soul, you can battle that out on
your own time. But if you work with me I'll find a way to get us out
of this place and to the city that made this engine, because if there
is a way off this planet we'll find it only in the city."

"I know that, yet I still hesitate--"

"Small sacrifices now for the greater good later. Isn't the entire
purpose of this trip to get me back to justice? You're not going to
accomplish that by rotting out the rest of your life as a slave."

"You are the devil's advocate the way you twist my conscience--yet
what you say is true. I will help you here so that we can escape."

"Fine. Now get to work. Take Narsisi and have him round up at least
three good-sized poles, the kind we were chained to in the pumping
gang. Bring them back here along with a couple of shovels."

       *       *       *       *       *

Slaves carried the poles only as far as the outside of the skin walls,
since Edipon would not admit them inside, and it was up to Jason and
Mikah to drag them laboriously to the site. The D'zertanoj, who never
did physical labor, thought it was very funny when Jason suggested
that they help. Once in position by the engine, Jason dug channels
beneath it and forced the bars under. When this was done he took turns
with Mikah in digging out the sand beneath until the engine stood over
a pit supported only by the bars. Jason let himself down and examined
the bottom of the machine. It was smooth and featureless.

Once more he scratched away the paint with careful precision, until it
was cleared around the edges. Here the solid metal gave way to solder
and he picked at this until he discovered that a piece of sheet metal
had been soldered at the edges and fastened to the bedplate. "Very
tricky, these Appsalanoj," he chortled and attacked the solder with a
knife blade. When one end was loose he slowly pulled the sheet of
metal away, making positive that there was nothing attached to it, nor
that it had been booby-trapped in any way. It came off easily enough
and clanged down into the pit. The revealed surface was smooth metal,
featureless and hard.

"Enough for one day," Jason said, climbing out of the pit and brushing
off his hands. It was almost dark. "We've accomplished enough for now
and I want to think a bit before I go ahead. So far luck has been on
our side, but I don't think it should be this easy. I hope you brought
your suitcase with you, Mikah, because you're moving in with me."

"Never! A sink of sin, depravity--"

Jason looked him coldly in the eye and with each word he spoke he
stabbed him in the chest with his finger to drive home the point. "You
are moving in with me because that is essential to our plans. And if
you stop referring to my moral weaknesses I'll stop talking about
yours. Now come on."

Living with Mikah Samon was trying, but barely possible. He made Ijale
and Jason go to the far wall and turn their backs and promise not to
look while he bathed behind a screen of skins. Jason did this but
exacted a small revenge by telling Ijale jokes so that they tittered
together and Mikah would be sure they were laughing at him. The screen
of skins remained after the bath, and was reinforced, and Mikah
retired behind it to sleep. Their food still consisted only of
_krenoj_ and Jason shuddered while he admitted that he was actually
growing used to them.

The following morning, under the frightened gaze of his guards, Jason
tackled the underside of the baseplate. He had been thinking about it
a good part of the night and he put his theories to the test at once.
By pressing hard on a knife he could make a good groove in the metal.
It was not as soft as the solder, but seemed to be some simple alloy
containing a good percentage of lead. What could it be concealing?
Probing carefully with the point of the knife he covered the bottom in
a regular pattern. The depth of the metal was uniformly deep except in
two spots where he found irregularities, they were on the midline of
the rectangular base, and equidistant from the ends and sides. Picking
and scraping he uncovered two familiar looking shapes each as big as
his head.

"Mikah. Get down in this hole and look at these things. Tell me what
you think they are."

Mikah scratched his beard. "They're still covered with this metal, I
can't be sure--"

"I'm not asking you to be sure of anything--just tell me what they
make you think of."

"Why ... big nuts of course. Threaded on the ends of bolts. But they
are so big--"

"They would have to be if they hold the entire metal case on. I think
we are getting very close now to the mystery of how to open the
engine--and this is the time to be careful. I still can't believe it
is as easy as this to crack the secret. I'm going to whittle a wooden
template of the nut, then have a wrench made. While I'm gone you stay
down here and pick all the metal off the bolt and out of the screw
threads. I can put off doing it while we think this thing through, but
sooner or later I'm going to have to take a stab at turning one of
those nuts. And I find it very hard to forget about that mustard gas."

Making the wrench put a small strain on the local technology and all
of the old men who enjoyed the title of Masters of the Still went into
consultation over it. One of them was a fair blacksmith and after a
ritual sacrifice and a round of prayers he shoved a bar of iron into
the charcoal and Jason pumped the bellows until it glowed white hot.
With much hammering and cursing it was laboriously formed into a
sturdy open-end wrench with an offset head to get at the countersunk
nuts. Jason made sure that the opening was slightly undersized, then
took the untempered wrench to the work site and filed the jaws to an
exact fit. After being reheated and quenched in oil he had the tool
that he hoped would do the job.

       *       *       *       *       *

Edipon must have been keeping track of the work progress because he
was waiting near the engine when Jason returned with the completed
wrench.

"I have been under," he announced, "and have seen the nuts that the
devilish Appsalanoj have concealed within solid metal. Who would have
suspected! It still seems to me impossible that one metal could be
hidden within another, how could that be done?"

[Illustration]

"Easy enough. The base of the assembled engine was put into a form and
the molten covering metal poured into it. It must have a much lower
melting point than the steel of the engine so there would be no
damage. They just have a better knowledge of metal technology in the
city and counted on your ignorance."

"Ignorance! You insult--"

"I take it back. I just meant they thought they could get away with
the trick, and since they didn't they are the stupid ones. Does that
satisfy you?"

"What do you do next?"

"I take off the nuts and when I do there is a good chance that the
poison-hood will be released and can simply be lifted off."

"It is too dangerous for you to do, the fiends may still have other
traps ready when the nut is turned. I will send a strong slave to turn
them while we watch from a distance, his death will not matter."

"I'm touched by your concern for my health, but as much as I would
like to take advantage of the offer, I cannot. I've been over the same
ground and reached the reluctant conclusion that this is one job of
work that I have to do myself. Taking off those nuts looks entirely
too easy, and that's what makes me suspicious. I'm going to do it and
look out for any more trickery at the same time--and that is something
that only I can do. Now I suggest you withdraw with the troops to a
safer spot."

There was no hesitation about leaving, footsteps rustled quickly on
the sand and Jason was alone. The leather walls flapped slackly in the
wind and there was no other sound. Jason spat on his palms, controlled
a slight shiver and slid into the pit. The wrench fitted neatly over
the nut, he wrapped both hands around it and, bracing his leg against
the pit wall, began to pull.

And stopped. Three turns of thread on the bolt projected below the
nut, scraped clean of metal by the industrious Mikah. Something about
them looked very wrong but he didn't know quite what.

[Illustration]

"Mikah," he shouted, and had to call loudly two more times before his
assistant poked his head tentatively around the screen. "Nip over to
the petroleum works and get me one of their bolts threaded with a nut,
any size, it doesn't matter."

Jason warmed his hands by the stove until Mikah returned with the oily
bolt, then waved him out to rejoin the others. Back in the pit he held
it up next to the protruding section of Appsalan bolt and chortled
with joy. The threads on the angle bolt were canted at a slightly
different angle: where one ran up, the other ran down. The Appsalan
threads had been cut in reverse, with a lefthand thread.

Throughout the galaxy there existed as many technical and cultural
differences as there were planets, yet one of the few things they all
had in common, inherited from their terrestrial ancestors, was a
uniformity of thread. Jason had never thought about it before, but
when he mentally ran through his experiences on different planets he
realized that they were all the same. Screws went into wood, bolts
went into threaded holes and nuts all went onto bolts when you turned
them with a clockwise motion. Counterclockwise removed them. In his
hand was the crude D'zertano nut and bolt, and when he tried it it
moved in the same manner. But the engine bolt did not work that
way--it had to be turned clockwise to _remove_ it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dropping the nut and bolt he placed the wrench on the massive engine
bolt and slowly applied pressure in what felt like the completely
wrong direction, as if he were tightening not loosening. It gave
slowly, first a quarter then a half turn. And bit by bit the
projection threads vanished until they were level with the surface of
the nut. It turned easily now and within a minute it fell into the
pit--he threw the wrench after it and scrambled out. Standing at the
edge he carefully sniffed the air, ready to run at the slightest smell
of gas. There was nothing.

The second nut came off as easily as the first and with no ill
effects. Jason pushed a sharp chisel between the upper case and the
baseplate where he had removed the solder, and when he leaned on it
the case shifted slightly, held down only by its own weight.

From the entrance to the enclosure he shouted to the group huddled in
the distance. "Come on back--this job is almost finished."

They all took turns at sliding into the pit and looking at the
projecting bolts and made appreciative sounds when Jason leaned on the
chisel and showed how the case was free.

"There is still the little matter of taking it off," he told them,
"and I'm sure that grabbing and heaving is the wrong way. That was my
first idea too, but the people who assembled that thing had some bad
trouble in store for anyone who tightened those nuts instead of
loosening them. Until we find out what that is we are going to tread
very lightly. Do you have any big blocks of ice around here, Edipon?
It is winter now, isn't it?"

"Ice? Winter?" Edipon mumbled, caught off guard by the change of
direction, rubbing abstractedly at the reddened tip of his prominent
nose. "Of course it is winter. Ice, there must be ice at the higher
lakes in the mountain, they are always frozen at this time of the
year. But what do you want ice for?"

"You get it and I'll show you. Have it cut in nice flat blocks that I
can stack. I'm not going to lift the hood--I'm going to drop the
engine out from underneath it!"

By the time the slaves had brought the ice down from the distant lakes
Jason had rigged a strong wooden frame flat on the ground around the
engine and pushed sharpened metal wedges under the hood, then had
secured the wedges to the frame. Now, if the engine was lowered into
the pit, the hood would stay above supported by the wedges. The ice
would take care of this. Jason built a foundation of ice under the
engine then slipped out the supporting bars. Now as the ice slowly
melted the engine would be gently lowered into the pit.

The weather remained cold and the ice refused to melt until Jason had
the pit ringed with smoking oil stoves. Water began to run down into
the pit and Mikah went to work bailing it out, while the gap between
the hood and the baseplate widened. The melting continued for the rest
of the day and almost all of the night. Red-eyed and exhausted Jason
and Mikah supervised the soggy sinking and when the D'zertanoj
returned at dawn the engine rested safely in a pool of mud on the
bottom of the pit: the hood was off.

"They're tricky devils over there in Appsala, but Jason dinAlt wasn't
born yesterday," he exulted. "Do you see that crock sitting there on
top of the engine," he pointed to a sealed container of thick glass
the size of a small barrel, filled with an oily greenish liquid; it
was clamped down tightly with padded supports. "That's the booby trap.
The nuts I took off were on the threaded ends of two bars that held
the hood on, but instead of being fastened directly to the hood they
were connected by a crossbar that rested on top of that jug. If either
nut was tightened instead of being loosened, the bar would have bent
and broken the glass. I'll give you exactly one guess as to what would
have happened then."

"The poison liquid!"

"None other. And the double-walled hood is filled with it, too. I
suggest that as soon as we have dug a deep hole in the desert the hood
and container be buried and forgotten about. I doubt if the engine has
many other surprises in store, but I'll be careful as I work on it."

"You can fix it? You know what is wrong with it?" Edipon was vibrating
with joy.

"Not yet, I have barely looked at the thing. In fact one look was
enough to convince that the job will be as easy as stealing _krenoj_
from a blind man. The engine is as inefficient and clumsy in
construction as your petroleum still. If you people put one tenth of
the energy into research and improving your product as you do into
hiding it from the competition, you would all be flying jets."

"I forgive your insult because you have done us a service. You will
now fix this engine and the other engines. A new day is breaking for
us!"

"Right now it is a new night that is breaking for me," Jason yawned.
"I have two days sleep to make up. See if you can talk your sons into
wiping the water off that engine before it rusts away, and when I get
back I'll see what I can do about getting it into running condition."


IX

Edipon's good mood remained and Jason took advantage of it by
extracting as many concessions as possible. By hinting that there
might be more traps in the engine permission was easily gained to do
all the work on the original site instead of inside the sealed and
guarded buildings. A covered shed gave them protection from the
weather and a test stand was constructed to hold the engines when
Jason worked on them. This was of a unique design and built to Jason's
exacting specification, and since no one, including Mikah, had ever
heard of or seen a test stand before Jason had his way.

The first engine proved to have a burnt-out bearing and Jason rebuilt
it by melting down the original bearing metal and casting it in
position. When he unbolted the head of the massive single cylinder he
shuddered at the clearance around the piston; he could fit his fingers
into the opening between the piston and the cylinder wall; by
introducing cylinder rings he doubled the compression and power
output. When Edipon saw the turn of speed the rebuilt engine gave his
_caroj_ he hugged Jason to his bosom and promised him the highest
reward. This turned out to be a small piece of meat every day to
relieve the monotony of the _krenoj_ meals, and a doubled guard to
make sure that his valuable property did not escape.

Jason had his own plans and kept busy manufacturing a number of
pieces of equipment that had nothing at all to do with his
engine-overhauling business. While these were being assembled he went
about lining up a little aid.

"What would you do if I gave you a club?" he asked a burly slave whom
he was helping to haul a log towards his workshop. Narsisi and one of
his brothers lazed along out of earshot, bored by the routine of the
guard duty.

"What I do with club?" the slave grunted, forehead furrowing and mouth
gaping open with the effort of thought.

"That's what I asked. And keep pulling while you think, I don't want
the guards to notice anything."

"If I have club, I kill!" the slave announced excitedly, fingers
grasping eagerly for coveted weapon.

"Would you kill me?"

"I have club, I kill you, you not so big."

"But if I gave you the club wouldn't I be your friend? Then wouldn't
you want to kill someone else?"

The novelty of this alien thought stopped the slave dead and he
scratched his head perplexedly until Narsisi lashed him back to work.
Jason sighed and found another slave to try his sales program on.

It took a while, but the idea was eventually percolating through the
ranks of the slaves. All they had to look forward to from the
D'zertanoj was backbreaking labor and an early death. Jason offered
them something else, weapons, a chance to kill their masters, and even
more killing later when they marched on Appsala. It was difficult for
them to grasp the idea that they must work together to accomplish this
and not kill Jason and each other as soon as they received weapons.

It was a chancy plan at best, and would probably break down long
before any visit could be made to the city. But the revolt should be
enough to free them from bondage, even if the slaves fled afterwards.
There were less than fifty D'zertanoj at this well station, all men,
with their women and children at some other settlement further back in
the hills. It would not be too hard to kill them or chase them off and
long before they could bring reinforcements Jason and his runaway
slaves would be gone. There was just one factor missing from his plans
and a new draft of slaves solved even that problem for him.

"Happy days," he laughed, pushing open the door to his quarters and
rubbing his hands together with glee. The guard shoved Mikah in after
him and locked the door. Jason secured it with his own interior bolt
then waved the two others over to the corner farthest from the door
and tiny window opening.

       *       *       *       *       *

"New slaves today," he told them, "and one of them is from Appsala, a
mercenary or a soldier of some kind that they captured on a skirmish.
He knows that they will never let him live long enough to leave here,
so he was grateful for any suggestions I had."

"This is man's talk I do not understand," Ijale said, turning away and
starting towards the cooking fire.

"You'll understand this," Jason said, taking her by the shoulder.
"The soldier knows where Appsala is and can lead us there. The time
has come to think about leaving this place."

He had all of her attention now, and Mikah's as well, "How is this?"
she gasped.

"I have been making my plans, I have enough files and lockpicks now to
crack into every room in this place, a few weapons, the key to the
armory and every able bodied slave on my side."

"What do you plan to do?" Mikah asked.

"Stage a servile revolt in the best style. The slaves fight the
D'zertanoj and we get away, perhaps with an army helping us, but at
least we get away."

"You are talking _revolution_!" Mikah bellowed and Jason jumped him
and knocked him to the floor. Ijale held his legs down while Jason
squatted on his chest and covered his mouth.

"What is the matter with you? Want to spend the rest of your life
rebuilding stolen engines? They are guarding us too well for there to
be much chance of our breaking out on our own, so we need allies. We
have them ready made, all the slaves."

"Brevilushun...." Mikah mumbled through the restraining fingers.

"Of course it's a revolution. It is also the only possible chance of
survival that these poor devils will ever have. Now they are human
cattle, beaten and killed on whim. You can't be feeling sorry for the
D'zertanoj--every one of them is a murderer ten times over. You've
seen them beat people to death. Do you feel that they are too nice to
suffer a revolution?"

Mikah relaxed and Jason removed his hand slightly, ready to clamp down
if the other's voice rose above a whisper.

"Of course they are not nice, beasts in human garb is more truthful. I
feel no mercy for them and they should be wiped out and blotted from
the face of the earth as was Sodom and Gomorrah. But it cannot be done
by revolution, revolution is evil, inherently evil."

Jason stifled a groan. "Try telling that to two-thirds of the
governments that now exist, since that's about how many were founded
by revolution. Nice, liberal democratic governments--that were started
by a bunch of lads with guns and the immense desire to run things in a
manner more beneficial to themselves. How else do you get rid of the
powers on your neck if there is no way to legally vote them away? If
you can't vote them--shoot them."

"Bloody revolution, it cannot be!"

"All right, no revolution," Jason said, getting up and wiping his
hands disgustedly. "We'll change the name. How about calling it a
prison break? No, you wouldn't like that either. I have
it--liberation! We are going to strike the chains off these poor
people and restore them to the lands from which they were stolen. The
tiny fact that the slave holders regard them as property and won't
think much of the idea, therefore might get hurt in the process,
shouldn't bother you. So--will you join me in this Liberation
Movement?"

"It is still revolution."

"It is whatever I decide to call it!" Jason raged. "You come along
with me on the plans or you will be left behind when we go. You have
my word on that." He stomped over and helped himself to some soup and
waited for his anger to simmer down.

"I cannot do it ... I cannot do it," Mikah brooded, staring into his
rapidly cooling soup as into an oracular crystal ball, seeking
guidance there. Jason turned his back in disgust.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Don't end up like him," he warned Ijale, pointing his spoon back over
his shoulder. "Not that there is much chance that you ever will coming
as you do from a society with its feet firmly planted on the ground,
or on the grave to be more accurate. Your people see only concrete
facts, and only the most obvious ones, and as simple an abstraction as
'trust' seems beyond you. While this long-faced clown can only think
in abstractions of abstractions, and the more unreal they are the
better. I bet he even worries about how many angels can dance on the
head of a pin."

"I do not worry about it," Mikah broke in, overhearing the remark.
"But I do think about it once in a while, it is a problem that cannot
be lightly dismissed."

"You see?"

Ijale nodded. "If he is wrong, and I am wrong--then you must be the
only one who is right." She nodded in satisfaction at the thought.

"Very nice of you to say so," Jason smiled. "And true, too. I lay no
claims to infallibility but I am sure that I can see the difference
between abstractions and facts a lot better than either of you, and I
am certainly more adroit at handling them. The Jason dinAlt fan club
meeting is now adjourned." He reached his hand over his shoulder and
patted himself on the back.

"Monster of arrogance," Mikah bellowed.

"Oh, shut up."

"Pride goeth before a fall! You are a maledicent and idolatrous
antipietist...."

"Very good."

"... And I grieve that I could have considered aiding you for even a
second, or of standing by while you sin, and fear for the weakness of
my own soul that I have not been able to resist temptation as I
should. It grieves me, but I must do my duty." He banged loudly on the
door. "Guard! Guard!"

Jason dropped his bowl and started to scramble to his feet, but
slipped in the spilled soup and fell. As he stood again the locks
rattled on the door and it opened. If he could reach Mikah before the
idiot opened his mouth he would close it forever, or at least knock
him out before it was too late.

It was too late. Narsisi poked his head in and blinked sleepily; Mikah
struck his most dramatic pose and pointed to Jason. "Seize and arrest
that man, I denounce him for attempted revolution, for planning red
murder!"

Jason skidded to a halt and back-tracked, diving into a bag of his
personal belongings that lay against the wall. He scrabbled in it,
then kicked the contents about and finally came up with a
metal-forming hammer that had a weighty solid lead head.

"More traitor you," Jason shouted at Mikah as he ran at Narsisi who
had been dumbly watching the performance and mulling over Mikah's
words. Slow as he appeared, there was nothing wrong with his reflexes
and his shield snapped up and took Jason's blow while his club spun
over neatly and rapped Jason on the back of the hand: the numbed
fingers opened and the hammer dropped to the floor.

"I think you two better come with me, my father will know what to do,"
he said, pushing Jason and Mikah ahead of him out the door. He locked
it and called for one of his brothers to stand guard, then poked his
captives down the hall. They shuffled along in their leg-irons, Mikah
nobly as a martyr and Jason seething and grinding his teeth.

Edipon was not at all stupid when it came to slave rebellions, and
sized up the situation even faster than Narsisi could relate it.

"I have been expecting this, so it comes as no surprise." His eyes
held a mean little glitter when he leveled them at Jason. "I knew the
time would come when you would try to overthrow me, which was why I
permitted this other to assist you and to learn your skills. As I
expected he has betrayed you to gain your position, which I award him
now."

"Betray? I did this for no personal gain," Mikah protested.

"Only the purest of motives," Jason laughed coldly. "Don't believe a
word this pious crook tells you, Edipon. I'm not planning any
revolutions, he just said that to get my job."

"You caluminate me, Jason! I never lie--you are planning revolt. You
told me--"

"Silence both of you, or I'll have you beaten to death. This is my
judgment. The slave Mikah has betrayed the slave Jason, and whether
the slave Jason is planning rebellion or not is completely
unimportant. His assistant would have not denounced him unless he was
sure that he could do the work as well, which is the only fact that
has any importance to me. Your ideas about a worker-class have
troubled me Jason. I will be glad to kill them and you at the same
time. Chain him with the slaves. Mikah, I award you Jason's quarter
and woman, and as long as you do the work well I will not kill you. Do
it a long time and you will live a long time.

"Only the purest of motives, is that what you said, Mikah?" Jason
shouted back as he was kicked from the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

The descent from the pinnacle of power was fast and smooth. Within
half an hour new shackles were on Jason's wrists and he was chained to
the wall in a dark room filled with other slaves. His leg-irons had
been left on as an additional reminder of his new status. He rattled
the chains and examined them in the dim light of a distant lamp as
soon as the door was closed.

"How comes the revolution?" the slave chained next to him leaned over
and asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Very funny, ha-ha," Jason grumbled, then moved closer for a better
look at the man who had a fine case of strabismus, his eyes pointing
in independent directions. "You look familiar ... are you the new
slave I talked to today?"

"That's me, Snarbi, fine soldier, pikeman, checked out on club and
dagger, seven kills and two possibles on my record, you can check it
yourself at the guild hall."

"I remember it all Snarbi, including the fact that you know your way
back to Appsala."

"I've been around."

"Then the revolution is still on, in fact it is starting right now but
I want to keep it small. Instead of freeing all these slaves what do
you say to the idea that we two escape by ourselves?"

"Best idea I heard since torture was invented, we don't need all these
stupid people. They just get in the way. Keep the operation small and
fast, that's what I always say."

"I always say that, too," Jason agreed, digging into his boot with his
fingertip. He had managed to shove his best file and a lockpick into
hiding there while Mikah was betraying him back in their room. The
attack on Narsisi with the hammer had just been a cover up.

Jason had made the file himself after many attempts at manufacturing
and hardening steel, and the experiments had been successful. He
picked out the clay that covered the cut he had made in his leg-cuffs
and tackled the soft iron with vigor; within three minutes they were
lying on the floor.

"You a magician?" Snarbi whispered, shuddering back.

"Mechanic. On this planet they're the same thing." He looked around
but the exhausted slaves were all asleep and had heard nothing.
Wrapping a piece of leather around it to muffle the sound he began to
file a link in the chain that secured the shackles on his wrists.
"Snarbi," he asked, "are we on the same chain?"

"Yeah, the chain goes through these iron cuff things and holds the
whole row of slaves together, the other end goes out through a hole in
the wall."

"Couldn't be better. I'm filing one of these links, and when it goes
we're both free. See if you can't slip the chain through the holes in
your shackles and lay it down without letting the next slave know what
is happening. We'll wear these iron cuffs for now, there is no time to
play around with them and they shouldn't bother us too much. Do the
guards come through here at all during the night to check on the
slaves?"

"Not since I've been here, just wake us up in the morning by pulling
on the chain."

"Then let's hope that's what happens again tonight, because we are
going to need plenty of time--_there!_" The file had cut through the
link. "See if you can get enough of a grip on the other end of this
link while I hold this end, we'll try and bend it open a bit." They
strained silently until the opening gaped wide and the next link
fitted through the cut.

They slipped the chain and laid it silently on the ground, then
drifted noiselessly to the door.

"Is there a guard outside?" Jason asked.

"Not that I know. I don't think they have enough men here to guard all
the slaves."

The door would not budge when they pushed against it, and there was
just light enough to make out the large keyhole of a massive inset
lock. Jason probed lightly with the pick and curled his lip in
contempt.

"These idiots have left the key in the lock." He pulled off the
stiffest of his leather wrappings and after flattening it out pushed
it under the badly fitting bottom edge of the door, leaving just a bit
to hold onto. Then he poked lightly at the key through the keyhole and
heard it thud to the ground outside. When he pulled the leather back
in the key was lying in the center of it. The door unlocked silently
and a moment later they were outside, staring tensely into the
darkness.

"Let's go! Run, get away from here," Snarbi said and Jason grabbed him
by the throat and pulled him back.

"Isn't there one drop of constructive intelligence on this planet? How
are you going to get to Appsala without food or water, and if you find
some--how can you carry enough? You want to stay alive follow my
instructions. I'm going to lock this door first so that no one
stumbles onto our escape by accident. Then we are going to get some
transport and leave here in style. Agreed?"

The answer was only a choked rattle until Jason opened his fingers a
bit and let some air into the man's lungs. A labored groan must have
meant assent because Snarbi tottered after him when he made his way
through the dark alleys between the buildings.

Getting clear of the walled refinery town presented no problem since
the few sentries were only looking for trouble from the outside. It
was equally easy to approach Jason's leather-walled worksite from the
rear and slip through it at the spot where Jason had cut the leather
and sewn up the opening with thin twine.

"Sit here and touch nothing or you will be cursed for life," he
commanded the shivering Snarbi, then slipped towards the front
entrance with a small sledge hammer clutched in his fist. He was
pleased to see one of Edipon's other sons on guard duty, leaning
against a pole and dozing. Jason gently lifted his leather helm with
his free hand and tapped once with the hammer: the guard slept even
more soundly.

"Now we can get to work," Jason said when he had returned inside, and
clicked a firelighter to the wick of a lantern.

"What are you doing? They'll see us, kill us--escaped slaves."

"Stick with me Snarbi and you'll be wearing shoes. Lights here can't
be seen by the sentries, I made sure of that when I sited the place.
And we have a piece of work to do before we leave--we have to build a
_caroj_."

They did not have to build it from scratch, but there was enough truth
in the statement to justify it. His most recently rebuilt and most
powerful engine was still bolted to the test stand, a fact that
justified all the night's risks. Three _caroj_ wheels lay among the
other debris of the camp and two of them were to be bolted to the
engine while it was still on the stand. The ends of the driving axle
cleared the edges of the stand, Jason threaded the securing wheel
bolts into place and utilized Snarbi to tighten them.

At the other end of the stand was a strong, swiveling post that had
been a support for his test instruments, and seemed strangely large
for this small task. It was. When the instruments were stripped away a
single bar remained projecting backwards like a tiller handle. When a
third wheel was fitted with a stub axle and slid into place in the
forked lower end of the post the test stand looked remarkably like a
three-wheeled, steerable, steam engine powered platform that was
mounted on legs. This is exactly what it was, what Jason had designed
it to be from the first, and the supporting legs came away with the
same ease that the other parts had been attached. Escape had always
taken first priority in his plans.

Snarbi dragged over the crockery jars of oil, water and fuel while
Jason filled the tanks. He started the fire under the boiler and
loaded aboard tools and the small supply of _krenoj_ he had managed to
set aside from their rations. All of this took time, but not time
enough. It would soon be dawn and they would have to leave before
then, and he could no longer avoid making up his mind. He could not
leave Ijale here, and if he went to get her he could not refuse to
take Mikah as well. The man had saved his life, no matter what
murderous idiocies he had managed to pull since that time. Jason
believed that you owed something to a man who prolonged your
existence, but he also wondered just how much he still owed. In
Mikah's case he felt the balance of the debt to be mighty small, if
not overdrawn. Perhaps this one last time.

"Keep an eye on the engine and I'll be back as soon as I can," he
said, jumping to the ground and loading on equipment.

"You want me to do _what_? Stay here with this devil machine? I
cannot! It will burn and consume me--"

"Act your age, Snarbi, your physical age if not your mental one. This
rolling junk pile was made by men and repaired and improved by me, no
demons involved. It burns oil to make heat that makes steam that goes
to this tube to push that rod to make those wheels go around so we can
move, and that is as much of the theory of the steam engine as you are
going to get from me. Maybe you can understand this better--only I can
get you safely away from here. Therefore, you will stay and do as I
say or I will beat your brains in. Clear?"

Snarbi nodded dumbly.

"Fine. All you have to do is sit here and look at this little green
disk, see it? If it should pop out before I come back turn _this_
handle in _this_ direction. Clear enough? That way the safety valve
won't blow and wake the whole country and we'll still have a head of
steam."

[Illustration]

Jason went out past the still-silent sentry and headed back towards
the refinery station. Instead of a club or a dagger he was armed with
a well tempered broadsword that he had managed to manufacture under
the noses of the guards. They had examined everything he brought from
the worksite, since he had been working in the evenings in his room,
but ignored everything he manufactured as being beyond their
comprehension. This primordial mental attitude had been of immense
value for in addition to the sword he carried a sack of molotails, a
simple weapon of assault whose origins were lost in pre-history. Small
crocks were filled with the most combustible of the refinery's
fractions and wrapped around outside with cloth that he had soaked in
the same liquid. The stench made him dizzy and he hoped that they
would repay his efforts when the time came, since they were completely
untried. In use one lit the outer covering and threw them. The
crockery burst on impact and the fuse ignited the contents.
Theoretically.

Getting back in proved to be as easy as getting out, and Jason felt an
unmistakable twinge of regret. His subconscious had obviously been
hoping that there would be a disturbance and he would have to retreat
to save himself, his subconscious obviously being very short on
interest in saving the slave girl and his nemesis, particularly at the
risk of his own skin. His subconscious was disappointed. He was in the
building where his quarters lay, trying to peek around the corner to
see if a guard was at the door. There was, and he seemed to be dozing,
but something jerked him awake. He had heard nothing but he sniffed
the air and wrinkled his nose; the powerful smell of water-of-power
from Jason's molotails had roused him and he spotted Jason before he
could pull back.

"Who is there?" he shouted and advanced at a lumbering run.

There was no quiet way out of this one so Jason leaped out with an
echoing shout and lunged. The blade went right under the man's
guard--he must never have seen a sword before--and the tip caught him
full in the throat. He expired with a bubbling wail that stirred
voices deeper in the building. Jason sprang over the corpse and tore
at the multifold bolts and locks that sealed the door. Footsteps were
running in the distance when he finally threw the door open and ran
in.

"Get out and quick we're escaping!" he shouted at them and pushed the
dazed Ijale towards the door and exacted a great deal of pleasure from
landing a tremendous kick that literally lifted Mikah through the
opening, where he collided with Edipon who had just run up waving a
club. Jason leaped over the tumbled forms, rapped Edipon behind the
ear with the hilt of his sword and dragged Mikah to his feet.

"Get out to the engine works," he ordered his still uncomprehending
companions. "I have a _caroj_ there that we can get away in." He
cursed them and they finally broke into clumsy motion. There were
shouts from behind him and an armed mob of D'zertanoj ran into view.
Jason pulled down the hall light, burning his hand on the hot base at
the same time, and applied its open flame to one of his molotails. The
wick caught with a roar of flame and he threw it at approaching
soldiers before it could burn his hand. It flew towards them, hit the
wall and broke, inflammable fuel spurted in every direction and the
flame went out.

Jason cursed and grappled for another molotail, because if they didn't
work he was dead. The D'zertanoj had hesitated a moment rather than
walk through the puddle of spilled water-of-power and in that instant
he hurled the second fire bomb. This one burst nicely too, and lived
up to its maker's expectations when it ignited the first molotail as
well and the passageway filled with a curtain of fire. Holding his
hand around the lamp flame so it wouldn't go out, Jason ran after the
others.

So far the alarm had not spread outside of the building and Jason
bolted the door from the outside. By the time this was broken open and
the confusion sorted out they would be clear of the buildings. There
was no need for the lamp now and would only give him away. He blew it
out and from the desert came a continuous and ear-piercing scream.

"He's done it," Jason groaned. "That's the safety valve on the steam
engine!"

He bumped into Ijale and Mikah who were milling about confusedly in
the dark, kicked Mikah again out of sheer malice and hatred of all
mankind, and led them towards the worksite at a dead run.

       *       *       *       *       *

They escaped unharmed mainly because of the confusion on all sides of
them. The D'zertanoj seemed to never have experienced a night attack
before, which they apparently thought this was, and did an incredible
amount of rushing about and shouting. Matters were not helped by the
burning building nor the unconscious form of Edipon that was carried
from the blaze. All the D'zertanoj had been roused by the scream of
the safety valve, that was still bleeding irreplacable steam into the
night air, and there was much milling about.

In the confusion the fleeing slaves were not noticed, and Jason led
them around the guard post on the walls and directly towards the
worksite. They were spotted as they crossed the empty ground and after
some hesitation the guard ran in pursuit. Jason was leading the enemy
directly to his precious steam-wagon, but he had no choice. The thing
was certainly making its presence known in any case, and unless he
reached it at once the head of steam would be gone and they would be
trapped. He leaped the still recumbent guard at the entrance and ran
towards his machine. Snarbi was cowering behind one wheel but there
was no time to give him any attention. As Jason jumped onto the
platform the safety valve closed and the sudden stillness was
frightening. The steam was gone.

With frantic grabs he spun valves and shot one glance at the
indicator: there wasn't enough steam left to roll the meters. Water
gurgled and the boiler hissed and clacked at him while screams of
anger came from the D'zertanoj as they ran into the enclosure and saw
the bootleg _caroj_. Jason thrust the end of a molotail into the
firebox; it caught fire and he turned and hurled it at them. The angry
cries turned into screams of fear as the tongues of flame licked up at
the pursuers and they retreated in disorder. Jason ran after them and
hastened their departure with another molotail. They seemed to be
retreating as far as the refinery walls, but he could not be sure in
the darkness if some of them weren't creeping around to the sides.

He hurried back to the _caroj_, tapped on the still-unmoving pressure
indicator and opened the fuel feed wide. As an afterthought he wired
down the safety valve since his reinforced boiler should hold more
pressure than the valve had been originally adjusted for. Once this
was finished he chewed at his oily fingernails since there was nothing
else that could be done until the pressure built up again. The
D'zertanoj would rally, someone would take charge, and they would
attack the worksite. If they had enough steam before this happened,
they would escape. If not--

"Mikah, and you, too, you cowering slob Snarbi you, get behind this
thing and push," Jason said.

"What has happened," Mikah asked. "Have you started this revolution?
If so I will give no aid...."

"We're escaping, if that's all right with you. Just I, Ijale and a
guide to show us the way. You don't have to come--"

"I will join you. There is nothing criminal in escaping from these
barbarians."

"Very nice of you to say so. Now push. I want this steamobile in the
center, far from all the walls, and pointing towards the desert. Down
the valley I guess, is that right, Snarbi?"

"Down the valley, sure, that's the way." His voice was still rasping
from the earlier throttling, Jason was pleased to notice.

"Stop it here and everyone aboard. Grab onto those bars I've bolted
along the sides so you won't get bounced off, if we ever start moving
that is."

Jason took a quick look through his workshop to make sure everything
they might need was already loaded, then reluctantly climbed aboard
himself. He blew out the lantern and they sat there in the darkness,
their faces lit from below by the flickering glow from the firebox,
while the tension mounted. There was no way to measure time since each
second took an eternity to drag by.

The walls of the worksite cut off any view of the outside and within a
few moments imagination had peopled the night with silent hordes
creeping towards them, huddling about the thin barrier of leather,
ready to swoop down and crush them in an instant.

"Let's run for it," Snarbi gurgled and tried to jump from the
platform. "We're trapped here, we'll never get away...."

Jason tripped him and knocked him flat, then pounded his head against
the floor planks a few times until he quieted.

"I can sympathize with that poor man," Mikah said severely. "You are a
brute, Jason, to punish him for his natural feelings. Cease your
sadistic attack and join me in a prayer."

"If this poor man you are so sorry for had simply done his duty and
watched the boiler, we would all be safely away from here by now. And
if you have enough breath for a prayer, put it to better use by
blowing into the firebox. It's not going to be wishes or prayers that
gets us out of here, just a head of steam."

       *       *       *       *       *

A howled battlecry was echoed by massed voices and a squad of
D'zertanoj burst in through the entrance, and at the same instant the
rear of the leather wall went down and more armed men swarmed over it.
The immobile _caroj_ was trapped between the two groups of attackers
who laughed happily as they charged. Jason cursed and lit four
molotails at the same time and hurled them two and two in opposite
directions. Before they hit he had jumped to the steam valve and wound
it open; with a hissing clank the _caroj_ shuddered and got underway.

For the moment the attackers were held back by the walls of flame and
screamed even louder as the machine moved away at right angles from
between their two groups. The air whistled with crossbow bolts, but
most were badly aimed and only a few thudded into the baggage. With
each revolution of the wheels their speed picked up and when they hit
the walls the hides parted with a creaking snap. Strips of leather
whipped at them, then they were through.

The shouts and the fires grew dimmer behind them as they streaked down
the valley at a suicidal pace, hissing, rattling and crashing over the
bumps. Jason clung to the tiller and shouted for Mikah to come relieve
him, since if he let go of the thing they would turn and crash in an
instant, and as long as he held it he couldn't cut down the steam.
Some of this finally penetrated to Mikah because he crawled forward
grasping desperately to every hand-hold until he crouched beside
Jason.

"Grab this tiller and hold it straight and steer around anything big
enough to see."

As soon as the steering was taken over Jason worked his way back to
the engine and throttled down; they slowed to a clanking walk then
stopped completely. Ijale moaned and Jason felt as if every inch of
his body had been beaten with hammers. There was no sign of pursuit
since it would be at least an hour before they could raise steam in
the _caroj_ and no one on foot could have possibly matched their
headlong pace. The lantern he had used earlier had vanished during the
wild ride so Jason dug out another one of his own construction.

"On your feet, Snarbi," he ordered. "I've cracked us all out of
slavery so now it is time for you to do some of the guiding that you
were telling me about. Walk ahead with this light and pick out a nice
smooth track going in the right direction. I never did have a chance
to build headlights for this machine so you will have to do instead."

Snarbi climbed down unsteadily and walked out in front. Jason opened
the valve a bit and they clattered forward on his trail as Mikah
turned the tiller to follow. Ijale crawled over and settled herself
against Jason's side, shivering with cold and fright. He patted her
shoulder.

"Relax," he said, "from now on this is just a pleasure trip."


X

They were six days out of Putl'ko and their supplies were almost
exhausted. The country, once they were away from the mountains, became
more fertile, an undulating pampas of grass with enough streams and
herds of beasts to assure that they did not starve. It was fuel that
mattered, and that afternoon Jason had opened their last jar. They
stopped a few hours before dark since their fresh meat was gone, and
Snarbi took the crossbow and went out to shoot something for the pot.
Since he was the only one who could handle the clumsy weapon with any
kind of skill in spite of his ocular deficiencies, and who knew about
the local game, this task had been assigned to him. With longer
contact his fear of the _caroj_ had lessened, and his self-esteem rose
at his recognized ability as a hunter. He strolled arrogantly out into
the knee-high grass, crossbow over his shoulder, whistling tunelessly
through his teeth. Jason stared after him and once again felt a
growing unease.

"I don't trust that wall-eyed mercenary, I don't trust him for one
second," he muttered.

"Were you talking to me?" Mikah asked.

"I wasn't but I might as well now. Have you noticed anything
interesting about the country we have been passing through, anything
different?"

"Nothing. It is a wilderness, untouched by the hand of man."

"Then you must be blind, because I have been seeing things the last
two days, and I know just as little about woodcraft as you do. Ijale,"
he called, and she looked up from the boiler over which she was
heating a thin stew of their last _krenoj_. "Leave that stuff, it
tastes just as bad whatever is done to it, and if Snarbi has any luck
we'll be having roast in any case. Tell me, have you seen anything
strange or different about the land we passed through today."

"Nothing strange, just signs of people. Twice we passed places where
the grass was flat and branches broken as if a _caroj_ passed two or
three days ago, maybe more. And once there was a place where someone
had built a cooking fire, but that was very old."

"Nothing to be seen, Mikah?" Jason asked with raised eyebrows. "See
what a lifetime of _krenoj_ hunting can do for the sense of
observation and terrain."

"I am no savage. You cannot expect me to look out for that sort of
thing."

"I don't. I have learned to expect very little from you beside
trouble. Only now I am going to need your help. This is Snarbi's last
night of freedom whether he knows it or not, and I don't want him
standing guard tonight, so you and I will split the shift."

Mikah was astonished. "I do not understand. What do you mean this is
his last night of freedom?"

"It should be obvious by now--even to you--after seeing how the social
ethic works on this planet. What did you think we were going to do
when we came to Appsala--follow Snarbi like sheep to the slaughter? I
have no idea what he is planning. I just know he must be planning
something. When I ask him about the city he only answers in
generalities. Of course he is a hired mercenary who wouldn't know too
much of the details, but he must know a lot more than he is telling
us. He says we are still four days away from the city. My guess is
that we are no more than one or two. In the morning I intend to grab
him and tie him up, then swing over to those hills there and find a
place to hole up. I'll fix some chains for Snarbi so he can't get
away, then I'll do a scout of the city...."

"You are going to chain this poor man, make a slave of him for no
reason!"

"I'm not going to make a slave of him, just chain him to make sure he
doesn't lead us into some trap that will benefit him. This souped-up
_caroj_ is valuable enough to tempt any of the locals, and if he can
sell me as an engine-mechanic slave his fortune is made."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I will not hear this!" Mikah stormed. "You condemn the man on no
evidence at all, just because of your nasty minded suspicions. Judge
not lest ye be judged yourself! And you play the hypocrite as well,
because I well remember your telling me that a man is innocent until
proven guilty."

"Well this man is guilty, if you want to put it that way, guilty of
being a member of this broken down society, which means that he will
always act in certain ways at certain times. Haven't you learned
anything about these people yet? Ijale!" She looked up from contented
munching on a _krenoj_, obviously not listening to the argument. "Tell
me, what is your opinion? We are coming soon to a place where Snarbi
has friends, or people who will help him. What do you think he will
do?"

"Say hello to the people he knows? Maybe they will give him a
_krenoj_." She smiled in satisfaction at her answer and took another
bite.

"That's not quite what I had in mind," Jason said patiently. "What if
we three are with him when we come to the people, and the people see
us and the _caroj_...."

She sat up, alarmed. "We can't go with him! If he has people there
they will fight us, make us slaves, take the _caroj_. You must kill
Snarbi at once."

"Bloodthirsty heathen...." Mikah began in his best denunciatory voice,
but quit when he saw Jason pick up a heavy hammer.

"Do you understand yet?" Jason asked. "By tying up Snarbi I'm only
conforming to a local code of ethic, like saluting in the army or not
eating with your fingers in polite society. In fact I'm being a little
slipshod, since by local custom I should kill him before he can make
us trouble."

"It cannot be, I cannot believe it. You cannot judge and condemn a man
upon such flimsy evidence."

"I'm not condemning him," Jason said with growing irritation, "Just
making sure that he can't cause me any trouble. You don't have to
agree with me to help me, just don't get in my way. And split the
guard with me tonight. Whatever I do in the morning will be on my
shoulders and no concern of yours."

"He is returning," Ijale hissed, and a moment later Snarbi came up
through the high grass.

"Got a _cervo_," he announced proudly, and dropped the animal down
before them. "Cut him up, makes good chops and roast. We eat tonight."

He was completely innocent and without guile and the only thing guilty
about him was his shifty gaze which could be blamed completely on his
crossed eyes. Jason wondered for a second if his assessment of the
danger was correct, then remembered where he was and lost his doubts.
Snarbi would be committing no crime if he tried to kill or enslave
them, just doing what any ordinary, decent slave-holding barbarian
would do in his place. Jason searched through his tool box for some
rivets that could be used to fasten the leg irons on the man.

They had a filling dinner and the others turned in at dusk and were
quickly asleep. Jason, tired from the labors of the trip and heavy
with food, forced himself to remain awake, trying to keep alert for
trouble both from within and from without. When he became too sleepy
he paced around the camp until the cold drove him back to the shelter
of the still-warm boiler. Above him the stars wheeled slowly and when
a prominent one reached the zenith he estimated it was midnight, or a
bit after. He shook Mikah awake.

"You're on now. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything stirring and
don't forget a careful watch there," he jerked his thumb at Snarbi's
silent form. "Wake me up at once if there's anything suspicious."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sleep dropped like a heavy curtain and Jason barely stirred until the
first light of dawn touched the sky. Only the brighter stars were
visible on the eastern horizon and he could see a ground fog rising
from the grass around them. Near him were the huddled forms of the two
sleepers and the farthest one shifted in his sleep and he realized it
was Mikah.

Sleep fell away instantly and he bounded out of his skin covers and
grabbed the other man by the shoulders. "What are you doing asleep?"
he raged. "You were supposed to be on guard."

Mikah opened his eyes and blinked. "I was on guard, but towards
morning Snarbi awoke and offered to take his turn. I could not refuse
him...."

"You couldn't WHAT? After what I said--"

"That was why. I could not judge an innocent man guilty and be a party
to your unfair action. Therefore, I left him on guard."

"You did, did you?" Jason grated with rage and pulled an unfelt
handful of hair from his newgrown beard. "Then where is he? Do you see
anyone on guard?"

Mikah looked in a careful circle and saw only the two of them and the
wakening Ijale. "He seems to have gone. He has proven his
untrustworthiness and in the future we will not allow him to stand
guard."

Jason raged, drew his foot back for a kick in the local reflex then
realized he had no time for such indulgences and dived for the
steamobile. The firelighter worked at the first shot, for a rare
change, and he lit the boiler. It roared merrily but when he tapped
the indicator he saw the fuel was almost gone. There would be enough
left in the last jug to take them to safety before whatever trouble
Snarbi was planning arrived. But the jug was gone.

"That tears it," Jason said resignedly after a hectic search of the
_caroj_ and the surrounding plain. The water-of-power had vanished
with Snarbi who, afraid as he was of the steam engine, apparently knew
enough from observing Jason fueling the thing that it could not move
without the vital liquid. An empty feeling of resignation had replaced
Jason's first rage: he should have known better than to trust Mikah
with anything, particularly when it involved an ethical point. He
stared at the man, now calmly eating a bit of cold roast and marveled
at the unruffled calm. "This doesn't bother you, the fact that you
have condemned us all to slavery again?"

"I did what was right, I had no other choice. We must live as moral
creatures or sink to the level of the animals."

"But when you live with people who behave like animals--how do you
survive?

"You live as they do--as you do, Jason," he said with majestic
judgment, "twisting and turning with fear and unable to avoid your
fate no matter how you squirm. Or you live as I have done, as a man of
conviction, knowing what is right and not letting your head be turned
by the petty needs of the day. And if one lives this way one can die
happy."

"Then die happy!" Jason snarled and reached for his sword, but settled
back again glumly before he picked it up. "To think that I ever
thought I could teach you anything about the reality of existence here
when you have never experienced reality before nor ever will until the
day you die. You carry your own attitudes, which are your reality,
around with you all the time, and they are more solid to you than this
ground we are sitting upon."

"For once we are in agreement, Jason. I have tried to open your eyes
to the true light, but you turn away and will not see. You ignore the
Eternal Law for the exigencies of the moment and are, therefore,
damned."

The pressure indicator on the boiler hissed and popped out, but the
fuel level was at the absolute bottom.

"Grab some food for breakfast, Ijale," Jason said, "and get away from
this machine. The fuel is gone and it's finished."

"I shall make a bundle to carry, we will escape on foot."

"No, that's out of the question. Snarbi knows this country and he knew
we would find out that he was missing at dawn. Whatever kind of
trouble he is bringing is already on the way and we wouldn't be able
to escape on foot. So we might as well save our energy. But they
aren't getting my handmade, super-charged steamobile!" he added with
sudden vehemence, grabbing up the crossbow. "Back both of you, far
back. They'll make a slave of me for my talents, but no free samples
go with it. If they want one of these hot-rod steam wagons, they are
going to have to pay for it!"

Jason lay down flat at the maximum range of the crossbow and his third
quarrel hit the boiler. It went up with a most satisfactory bang and
small pieces of metal and wood rained down all around. In the distance
he heard shouting and the barking of dogs.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

When he stood he could see a distant line of men advancing through the
tall grass and when they were closer large dogs were also visible,
tugging at their leashes. Though they must have come far in a few
hours they approached at a steady trot, experienced runners, in thin
leather garments each carrying a short, laminated bow and a full
quiver of arrows. They swooped up in a semicircle, their great hounds
slavering to be loosed, and stopped when the three strangers were
within bow range. They notched their arrows and waited with alert
patience, staying well clear of the smoking ruins of the caroj, until
Snarbi finally staggered up half supported by two other runners.

"You now belong to ... the Hertug Persson ... and are his slaves....
What happened to the _caroj_?" He screamed this last when he spotted
the smoking wreck and would have collapsed except for the sustaining
arms. Evidently the new slaves decreased in value with the loss of the
machine. He stumbled over to it and, when none of the soldiers would
help him, gathered up what he could find of Jason's artifacts and
tools. When he had bundled them up, and the foot cavalry had seen that
he suffered no injury from the contact, they reluctantly agreed to
carry them. One of the soldiers, identical in dress with the others,
seemed to be in charge, and when he signaled a return they closed in
on the three prisoners and nudged them to their feet with drawn bows.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Jason said, gnawing on a bone, "but I'm
going to finish my breakfast first. I see an endless vista of _krenoj_
stretching out before me and intend to enjoy this last meal before
entering servitude."

The lead soldiers looked confused and turned to their officer for
orders. "Who is this?" he asked Snarbi, pointing at the still seated
Jason. "Is there any reason why I should not kill him."

"You can't!" Snarbi choked, and turned a dirty shade of white. "He is
the one who built the devil-wagon and knows all of its secrets. Hertug
Persson will torture him to build another."

Jason wiped his fingers on the grass and reluctantly stood. "All right
gentlemen, let's go. And on the way perhaps someone can tell me just
who Hertug Persson is and what is going to happen next."

"I'll tell you," Snarbi bragged as they started the march. "He is
Hertug of the Perssonoj. I have fought for the Perssonoj and they knew
me and I saw the Hertug himself and he believed me. The Perssonoj are
very powerful in Appsala and have many powerful secrets, but not as
powerful as the Trozelligoj who have the secret of the _caroj_ and the
_jetilo_. I knew I could ask any price of the Perssonoj if I brought
them the secret of the _caroj_. And I will." He trust his face close
to Jason's with a fierce grimace. "You will tell them the secret. I
will help them torture you until you tell."

Jason put out his toe as they walked and Snarbi tripped over it and
when the traitor fell he walked the length of his body. None of the
soldiers paid any attention to this exchange and when they had passed
Snarbi staggered to his feet and tottered after them shouting curses.
Jason did not hear them, he had troubles enough as it was.


XI

Seen from the surrounding hills, Appsala looked like a burning city
that was being slowly washed into the sea. Only when they had come
closer was it clear that the smoke was from the multifold chimneys,
both large and small, that studded the buildings, and that the city
began at the shore and covered a number of islands in what must be a
shallow lagoon. Large sea-going ships were tied up at the seaward side
of the city and closer to the mainland smaller craft were being poled
through the canals. Jason searched anxiously for a spaceport or any
signs of interstellar culture but saw nothing. Then the hills
intervened as the trail cut off to one side and approached the sea
some distance from the city.

A fair-sized sailing vessel was tied up at the end of a stone wharf,
obviously awaiting them, and the captives were tied hand and foot and
tossed into the hold. Jason managed to wriggle around until he could
get his eye to a crack between two badly fitting planks and recited a
running travelogue of the cruise, apparently for the edification of
his companions, but really for his own benefit since the sound of his
own voice always cheered and encouraged him.

"Our voyage is nearing its close and before us opens up the romantic
and ancient city of Appsala, famed for its loathsome customs,
murderous natives and archaic sanitation facilities, of which this
watery channel this ship is now entering seems to be the major cloaca.
There are islands on both sides, the smaller ones covered with hovels
so decrepit that in comparison the holes in the ground of the humblest
animals appear to be palaces, while the larger islands appear to be
forts, each one walled and barbicaned and presenting a warlike face to
the world. There couldn't be that many forts in a town this size so I
am led to believe that each one is undoubtedly the guarded stronghold
of one of the tribes, groups or clans that our friend Judas told us
about. Look on these monuments to ultimate selfishness and beware:
this is the end product of the system that begins with slave-holders
like the former Ch'aka with their tribes of _krenoj_ crackers, and
builds up through familiar hierarchies like the D'zertanoj and reaches
its zenith of depravity behind those strong walls. It is still
absolute power that rules absolutely, each man out for all that he can
get and the only way to climb being over the bodies of others, and all
physical discoveries and inventions being treated as private and
personal secrets to be hidden and used only for personal gain. Never
have I seen human greed and selfishness carried to such extremes and I
admire Homo sapiens' capacity to follow through on an idea, no matter
how it hurts."

The ship lost way as it backed its sails and Jason fell from his
precarious perch into the stinking bilge. "The descent of man," he
muttered and inched his way out.

Piles grated along the sides and with much shouting and cursed orders
the ship came to a halt. The hatch above was slid back and the three
captives were rushed to the deck. The ship was tied up to a dock in a
pool of water surrounded by buildings and high walls. Behind them a
large sea gate was just swinging shut, through which the ship had
entered from the canal. They could see no more because they were
pushed into a doorway and through halls and past guards until they
ended up in a large central room. It was unfurnished except for the
dais at the far end on which stood a large and rusty iron throne. The
man on the throne, undoubtedly the Hertug Persson, sported a
magnificent white beard and shoulder length hair, his nose was round
and red, his eyes blue and watery. He nibbled at a _krenoj_ impaled
delicately on a two-tined iron fork.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Tell me," the Hertug shouted suddenly, "why you should not be killed
at once?"

"We are your slaves, Hertug, we are your slaves," everyone in the room
shouted in unison, waving their hands in the air at the same time.
Jason missed the first chorus, but came in on the second. Only Mikah
did not join in the chant-and-wave, speaking instead in a solitary
voice after the pledge of allegiance was completed.

"I am no man's slave."

The commander of the soldiers swung his thick bow in a short arc that
terminated on the top of Mikah's head: he dropped stunned to the
floor.

"You have a new slave, oh Hertug," the commander said.

"Which is the one who knows the secrets of the _caroj_?" the Hertug
asked and Snarbi pointed at Jason.

"Him there, oh mightiness. He can make _caroj_ and he can make the
monster that burns and moves them, I know because I watched him do it.
He also made balls of fire that burned the D'zertanoj and many other
things. I brought him to be your slave so that he could make _caroj_
for the Perssonoj. Here are the pieces of the _caroj_ we traveled in,
after it was consumed by its own fire." Snarbi shook the tools and
burnt fragments out onto the floor and the Hertug curled his lip at
them.

"What proof is this?" he asked, and turned to Jason. "These things
mean nothing. How can you prove to me, slave, that you can do the
things he says?"

Jason entertained briefly the idea to deny all knowledge of the
matter, which would be a neat revenge against Snarbi who would
certainly meet a sticky end for causing all this trouble for nothing,
but he discarded the thought as fast as it came. Partly for
humanitarian reasons, Snarbi could not help being what he was, but
mostly because he had no particular desire to be put to the question.
He knew nothing about the local torture methods, and he wanted to keep
it that way.

"Proof is easy, Hertug of all the Perssonoj, because I know everything
about everything. I can build machines that walk, that talk, that run,
fly, swim, bark like a dog and roll on their backs."

"You will build a _caroj_ for me?"

"It could be arranged, if you have the right kind of tools I could
use. But I must first know what is the specialty of your clan, if you
know what I mean. Like the Trozelligoj make _caroj_ and the D'zertanoj
pump oil. What do your people do?"

"You cannot know as much as you say if you do not know of the glories
of the Perssonoj!"

"I come from a distant land and as you know news travels slowly around
these parts."

"Not around the Perssonoj," the Hertug said scornfully and thumped his
chest. "We can talk across the width of the country and always know
where our enemies are. We can send magic on wires to kill, or magic to
make light in a glass ball or magic that will pluck the sword from an
enemy's hand and drive terror into his heart."

"It sounds like your gang has the monopoly on electricity, which is
good to hear. If you have some heavy forging equipment...."

"Stop!" the Hertug ordered. "Leave! Out--everyone except the
_sciuloj_. Not the new slave, he stays here," he shouted when the
soldiers grabbed Jason.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room emptied and the handful of men who remained were all a little
long in the tooth and each wore a brazen, sun-burst type decoration on
his chest. They were undoubtedly adept in the secret electrical arts
and they fingered their weapons and grumbled with unconcealed anger at
Jason's forbidden knowledge. The Hertug signaled him to continue.

"You used a sacred word. Who told it to you? Speak quickly or you will
be killed."

"Didn't I tell you I knew everything? I can build a _caroj_ and given
a little time I can improve on your electrical works, if your
technology is on the same level as the rest of this planet."

"Do you know what lies behind the forbidden portal?" the Hertug asked,
pointing to a barred, locked and guarded door at the other end of the
room. "There is no way you can have seen what is there, but if you can
tell me what lies beyond it I will know you are the wizard that you
claim you are."

"I have a very strange feeling that I have been over this ground once
before," Jason sighed. "All right, here goes. You people here make
electricity, maybe chemically, though I doubt if you would get enough
power that way, so you must have a generator of some sort. That will
be a big magnet, a piece of special iron that can pick up other iron,
and you spin it around fast next to some coils of wire and out comes
electricity. You pipe this through copper wire to whatever devices you
have, and they can't be very many. You say you talk across the
country. I'll bet you don't talk at all but send little clicks, dots
and dashes.... I'm right aren't I?" The foot shuffling and rising buzz
from the adepts was a sure sign that he was hitting close. "I have an
idea for you, I think I'll invent the telephone. Instead of the old
clikkety-clack how would you like to _really_ talk across the country?
Speak into a gadget here and have your voice come out at the far end
of the wire?"

The Hertug's piggy little eyes blinked greedily. "It is said that in
the old days this could be done, but we have tried and have failed.
Can you do this thing?"

"I can--if we can come to an agreement first. But before I make any
promises I have to see your equipment."

This brought the usual groans of complaint about secrecy, but in the
end avarice won over taboo and the door to the holy of holies was
opened for Jason while two of the _sciuloj_, with bared and ready
daggers, stood at his sides. At almost the same instant Jason looked
in through the door he heard the sound.

Now the reaction of the human body, while remarkably fast, need
certain finite measures of time and have been measured over and over
again with a great deal of accuracy. The commands of the brain, speedy
as they may be, must be carried by sluggish nerves and put into
operation by inert lumps of muscle. Therefore to say that Jason's
reactions were instantaneous is to tell a lie, or at least exaggerate.
Only to his watchers did his actions appear to take place that fast;
they were older, and less alert, and had not had the advantage of
Pyrran survival training. So to their point of view the sacred portal
was opened and Jason vanished in a flurry of activity. Two lightning
blows sent his guardians spinning, and before they had fallen to the
floor their supposed captive was through the door and it was slammed
in their faces. Before the first dumfounded Persson could jump forward
the bolt grated home inside and the door was sealed.

Things were a little more complex than that to Jason. When the door
opened he had had a good view of the inside of the room, of a slave
cranking the handle on a crude collection of junk that could only have
been a generator. Thick wires looped across the room from the thing to
a man who stood before some blades of copper pushing at them with a
wooden stick, while above his head fat sparks leaped the gap between
two brassy spheres. As if to complete this illustration for a
bronze-age edition of "First Steps in Electricity" another cable
twisted up from the spark gap and vanished out a small window. The
entire thing might have been labeled "How to Generate A Radio Signal
in the Crudest Manner." As Jason reached this conclusion in the
smallest fraction of a second, and at almost the very same instant, he
heard the sound.

What he heard could have been distant thunder, an earthquake, a
volcano or some giant explosion. It rumbled and rolled, muffled by
distance, yet still clear. It resembled none of these things to Jason,
but made him think only of a high altitude rocket or jet, cleaving
through the atmosphere.

It must have been the juxtaposition of these two things, occurring as
they did at the same time, the view of a radio transmitter, no matter
how crude, and the thought that there might be a civilized craft or
some kind up there containing men who would come to his aid if he
could only contact them. The idea was an insane one, but even as he
realized that fact he was through the door and bolting it behind him.
Perhaps he did it because he had been pushed around entirely too much
and felt like pushing someone else for a change. In any case it was
done, insane or not, and he might as well carry through.

The generator slave looked up, startled, but when Jason glanced at him
he lowered his eyes and kept cranking. The man who had been working
the transmitter spun about, startled by the slam of the door and the
muffled pounding and shouts that followed instantly from the other
side. He groped for his dagger when he saw the stranger, but before it
was clear of the scabbard Jason was on him and after a few quick
Pyrran infighting blows the man lost all interest in what was
happening and slid to the floor. Jason straddled his body, picked the
stick up, nodded to the slave who began cranking faster, and began to
tap out a message.

S-O-S ... S-O-S ... he sent first, then as fragments of code came back
to him he spelled out J-A-S-O-N D-A-L-T H-R-E.... N-E-E-D A-I-D....
R-I-C-H.... R-E-W-A-R-D ... F-O-R ... H-E-L-P....

He varied this a bit, repeated his name often, and tried other themes
appealing for off-world aid. It was a slim chance that he had heard a
rocket, and even slimmer chance that they would pick his message out
of the static if they happened to be listening. He had no evidence
that any off-worlders were in contact with this planet, merely hope.
He tapped on and the slave ground away industriously. His arm was
growing tired by the time the old guard in the other room found
something heavy enough to swing and broke the door down. Jason stopped
tapping and turned to face the apoplectic Hertug, rubbing his tired
wrist.

"Your equipment works fine, though it could use a lot of
improvements."

"Kill him.... Kill!" the Hertug sputtered.

"Kill me and there goes your _caroj_, as well as your telephone system
and your only chance to wrap up all the industrial secrets in one big
bundle," Jason said, looking around for something heavy to swing.

       *       *       *       *       *

A gigantic explosion slammed into the room; a crack appeared in one
wall and dust floated down from the ceiling. There was a sound of
snapping small arms fire in the distance.

"It worked!" Jason shouted with unrestrained glee and hurled a heavy
roll of wire at the startled men in the doorway and followed instantly
after it in a headlong dive. There was a flurry of action, most of the
damage being done by his boots, then he was through and running out of
the throne room with the men bellowing in pursuit.

A small war seemed to be raging ahead, the sharp explosions of gunfire
being mixed with the heavier thud of bombs and grenades. Walls were
down, doors blasted open while confused soldiers rushed in panic
through the clouds of dust. One of them tried to stop Jason who kept
on going, carrying the man's club with him. Sunlight shone ahead and
he dived through a riven wall and landed, rolling in the open ground
next to the dock. A spaceship's lifeboat stood there, still glowing
hot from the speed of descent, and next to it stood Meta keeping up a
continuous fire with her gun, happily juggling micro-grenades with her
free hand.

[Illustration]

"What were you waiting for," she snapped. "I have been in orbit over
this planet for a month now, waiting for some word from you. There are
dozens of radio transmitters on this continent and I have been
monitoring them all." She fired a long burst at an upper story where
some bowmen had been foolish enough to appear, then ran to Jason, eyes
wet with tears. "Oh, darling, I was so worried."

She held him--with her grenade-throwing arm--and kissed him fiercely.
She kept her eyes open while she was doing this but only had to fire
once.

"Jason!" a voice called and Ijale appeared, half-supporting the still
dazed Mikah.

"Who is this?" Meta snapped, the chill back in her voice.

"Why--just someone I know," Jason answered, smiling insincerely. "You
should recognize the man, he's the one who arrested me."

"Here is a gun, you will want to kill him yourself."

Jason took the gun, but used it to clear a nearby roof-top, the
powerful kick of the Pyrran automatic was like a caress on the heel of
his hand.

"I don't think I want to kill him. He saved my life once, though he
has tried to lose it for me a dozen times since. Let's get upstairs to
the ship and I'll tell you about it. There are more healthy spots than
this to have a conversation."


XII

Washed, shaved, scrubbed, cleaned, filled with good food and slightly
awash with alcoholic drink, Jason collapsed into the acceleration
couch and firmly swore that life was worth living after all.

"You can't appreciate the simple things of life until you have gone
without them for a while. Or the better things either." He reached out
and took Meta's hand. She pulled it away and fed more digits into the
computer.

"How did you find me?" he asked, trying to discover a subject that she
might warm to.

"That should be obvious. We saw the markings on the ship that took you
away and charted a directional trace before it went into jump-space.
We identified the markings and I went to Cassylia, but the ship had
never arrived there. I back-tracked the straight-line course and found
three possible planets near enough to have registered in the ship
during jump-space flight. Two are highly organized with modern
spaceports and would have known if the ship had landed. It hadn't.
Therefore you must have forced the ship down on the planet we just
left. And once you were there you would find one of the radios to send
a message. Which is what you did. It is obvious. Who is she?" The
final words were in a distinctly chillier tone of voice, and there
could be only one she, Ijale, who crouched across the room, obviously
unhappy and wide-eyed with fear at this voyage in a spaceship, not
understanding the language the others spoke.

"I've told you before--just a friend. She was with us, and helped us,
too. I couldn't let her go back to the life in the desert, it's more
brutal than you can possibly imagine. There is an entire planetful of
slaves back there, and of course I can't save them all. But I can do
this much, take out the one person there who would rather see me live
than die."

"What do you intend to do with her?" The sub-zero temperature of
Meta's voice left no doubt as to what she wanted to do with her. Jason
had already given this a good deal of thought, and if Ijale was going
to live much longer she had to be separated as soon as possible from
the deadly threat of female Pyrran jealousy.

"We stop at the next civilized planet and let her off. I have enough
money to leave a deposit in a bank that will last her for years. Make
arrangements for it to be paid out only a bit at a time, so no matter
how she is cheated she will still have enough. I'm not going to worry
about her, if she was able to survive in the _krenoj_ legion she can
get along well anywhere on a settled world."

He could hear the complaints on when he broke the news to Ijale, but
it was for her own survival.

"I shall care for and lead her in the paths of righteousness," a
remembered voice spoke from the doorway. Mikah stood there, clutching
to the jamb, a turban of bandages on his head.

"That's a wonderful idea," Jason agreed enthusiastically. He turned to
Ijale and spoke in her own language. "Did you hear that? Mikah is
going to take you home with him and look after you. I'll arrange for
some money to be paid to you for all your needs, he'll explain to you
what money is. I want you to listen to him carefully, note exactly
what he says, then do the exact opposite. You must promise me you will
do that and never break your word. In that way you may make some
mistakes and will be wrong sometimes, but all the rest of the time
things will go very smoothly."

"I cannot leave you! Take me with you--I'll be your slave always!" she
wailed.

"What did she say?" Meta snapped, catching some of the meaning.

"You are evil, Jason," Mikah declaimed, getting the needle back into
the familiar groove. "She will obey you, I know that, so no matter how
I labor she will always do as you say."

"I sincerely hope so," Jason said fervently. "One has to be born into
your particular brand of illogic to get any pleasure from it. The rest
of us are happier bending a bit under the impact of existence, and
exacting a mite more pleasure from the physical life around us."

"Evil I say, and you shall not go unpunished." His hand appeared from
behind the door jamb and it held a pistol that he had found below. "I
am taking command of this ship. You will secure the two women so that
they can cause no trouble, then we will proceed to Cassylia for your
trial."

Meta had her back turned to Mikah and was sitting in the control chair
a good five meters from him with her hands filled with navigational
notes. She slowly raised her head and looked at Jason and a smile
broke across her face.

"You said once you didn't want him killed."

"I still don't want him killed, but I also have no intention of going
to Cassylia." He echoed her smile and turned away.

He sighed happily and there was a sudden rush of feet behind his back.
No shots were fired but a hoarse scream, a thud and a sharp cracking
noise told him that Mikah had lost his last argument.

       *       *       *       *       *







End of Project Gutenberg's The Ethical Engineer, by Henry Maxwell Dempsey