The slaver frowned.

  "It is enough," said Dumarest. And then, as the man hesitated. "It is all I have."

  Kalin spoke from where she stood watching. "I am ignorant in these matters, but how much is a dead woman worth on Chron?"

  Argostan was amused. "You would not be dead," he said. "I am scarcely a novice to this trade. But I admire your spirit." He set the controls of the banker. "I shall not leave you penniless," he said to Dumarest. "I shall leave you—" he paused, thoughtful—"the cost of one half a Low passage."

  He pressed the activating switch. Magnetic beams removed the old tattoo, credited the selected amount to Argostan's balance, replaced the old brand with a new one showing the revised amount. The slaver turned, smiling.

  "Welcome aboard," he said. "Enjoy yourselves. In three days we land on Chron."

  * * *

  It was a bleak place with thin winds and acrid dust which, in time's of storm, blew in vast clouds beneath a copper sky. An amber sun clung sullenly to the horizon and threw exaggerated shadows over the gritty soil.

  Kalin lifted her hands to bare shoulders and hugged herself. "Earl, it's cold! Miserable!"

  "It's a dead-end world," he said flatly.

  "What—?"

  "Never mind."

  He took her arm and guided her away from a line of men marching from a bulking warehouse to the ship. They wore drab gray striped with scarlet, the glint of metal showing from the collars about their necks, and each man carried an ingot of refined metal: Argostan's payment for the cargo he had delivered. An overseer had already hurried them away. His twin, brilliant in orange cloak and helmet, looked curiously at the pair as Dumarest led the way toward the edge of the field. His eyes lingered on the girl; the whip he carried in his right hand made sharp snapping noises as he lashed the side of his boot.

  "You are staying on Chron for reasons of business, sir and madam?" The tout had oily hair, an oily face, a voice to match. "The Hotel Extempore is unequaled on the planet. The administrators themselves reside there when visiting Chron. I will myself carry your baggage."

  Dumarest walked past him.

  "If the Hotel Extempore is a little too grand, sir and madam, I represent a more modest establishment." The tout ran beside them, looking up into Dumarest's face. "The Albion Rooms are clean, the food is good, the charges reasonable. Your baggage, sir and madam?"

  "Get lost," snapped Dumarest.

  "There is nowhere to go," said the tout reasonably. "Your ship is the only new arrival and you are the only free passengers. I beg of you to let me be of service. If the Albion Rooms are a little too grand, then may I escort you to Pete's Bar?" He looked at the girl, eyes drifting over her hair, her body. "There is always a welcome at Pete's for those who are willing to help him entertain his friends."

  "No!" said Kalin sharply. "Earl, don't!"

  Dumarest looked at her.

  "You were choking him," she said. "I mean that you are going to choke him. That is—"

  "If he doesn't shut his mouth I'll break his neck," said Dumarest flatly. "That's what you mean. This time he's making his proposition to the wrong people."

  The tout backed away. "My apologies, sir and madam," he said quickly. "No offense was intended. But, on Chron, as everywhere else, a man must eat."

  Dumarest looked at the girl as the tout moved away. "You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly. "If nothing else, you could have warned the man of what I intended. But you should keep silent for another reason. Sensitives are rarely popular on worlds like this."

  "Is it such a bad world, Earl?"

  It was bad enough. A dead-end world at the end of the line. A rolling cinder without a local population, local industry, or native assets. Without opportunity for a man to get a job, build up a stake, get the price of a passage so as to make his escape.

  A federation of companies mined the planet. Their gigantic machines gouging deep into the mountains—rivers of power streaming from their atomic plants so as to fuse the buried ore by eddy currents, run it through taps and channels into molds. Second stage was refining the crude pigs, pouring into standard shapes, stacking in warehouses—there to wait for the freighters to come and ship it to the manufacturing worlds. Over the secondary smelters hung a billowing cloud of heat-borne ash. What use a cleaner when there was no one to consider?

  Only the technicians, supervisors and over-seers were highly paid contract men willing to stand dirt and fumes and rugged conditions for the sake of big rewards. The workers didn't count. Slave-labor. Men who had been sold to pay their debts, who had sold themselves for their families' sakes, who had been kidnapped and stolen and who could do nothing about it.

  The rest of the population consisted of stranded travelers, entrepreneurs, entertainers. The inevitable appendages to any community where there is a chance of money to be made or needs to satisfy.

  Dumarest halted as they left the field. A rabble stood watching: men shabbily dressed, gaunt, eyes smoldering with desperation or dull with hopeless resignation. The collared slaves were better dressed and in better condition than the stranded. Well to one side, the plastic bubbles which housed the executive quarters shone with lambent light and warmth. Closer, nearer to the landing field, a collection of bubbles, houses made of local stone, sheds with dirt walls and weighed roofs comprised the local village. To the other side, sheltered and almost hidden in a valley was the rubbish dump that was Lowtown.

  A muscle tightened in Dumarest's jaw as he looked at it.

  "Earl." Kalin tugged at his arm. "Can't we go somewhere warm? I'm getting cold."

  He loosened the fastenings of his tunic, doffed it, slipped it around her shoulders. Denied the insulation of the protective material his skin reacted, tightening against the chill. Behind, the sun made no impression; ahead, their shadows sprawled like distorted reflections of monstrous entities.

  "We'll find a banker," he decided. "We must get you something warm to wear. A cloak, protective coverings for your feet, a knife."

  "A laser would be better." She did not pretend to misunderstand.

  "You know how to use a knife," he said gently. "And lasers cost money."

  So did boots, a cloak, a knife.

  Dumarest looked at the few coins left from their purchase and dropped them into her palm. Kalin looked different. The golden tunic had gone to pay for more appropriate clothing. Her mane of flaming hair coiled beneath the rim of an insulated helmet. Pants, covering her tapering legs, tucked into high boots, belted against a shirt which, in turn, was covered by a rough tunic. The high-collared cloak was marked in zig-zags of green and yellow. The knife was a thin edged, pointed strip of steel carried in a sheath strapped to her left forearm.

  She chuckled as they stood in the dust of the main and single street of the village. "You know, Earl, this is fun. I've never worn clothing like this before."

  She had never been stranded on a world like Chron before either. Dumarest had. It was an experience he had never wanted to repeat.

  Chapter Seven

  A KNOT OF MEN came down a winding path leading from the far end of the village. Dumarest stepped back as they approached. Two of the men carried something shapeless slung on a thick pole, the weight stooping their shoulders. Two others carried packs and supported a third man between them. He clung to their necks, legs trailing in the dust. His face was white beneath the dirt, strained, a thick rope of dried blood ran from the corner of his mouth. The chest of his shabby tunic was stiff with more of the same. The sixth man was big, stocky. The side of his face puckered as if it had been seared with fire.

  A man called from the far side of the street. "Any luck, Am?"

  The scarred man spat. "Sure," he said bitterly. "A lot of it. All bad."

  Dumarest stepped forward as the knot of men halted before a building. He nodded toward the burden slung on the pole. "You've been hunting," he said. "Is there much game here?"

  Arn looked at him, then at the girl. "You want to hire some men to go on a hunt?" He frowned as Dumarest shook his head. "Just curious then, uh? Tourists, maybe?"

  "Travelers," corrected Dumarest. "Just arrived and stranded."

  "The pair of you?" Arn looked at Kalin. "She your woman?"

  "That's right," said the girl.

  "Tough," said the scarred man. "For you, that is. Alone you'd have no trouble getting the price of a passage." He scowled as Dumarest tensed. "Relax, mister," he said. "I've had a hard time lately but I can still handle what I have to." His voice was flat, dull, a man trying to reassure himself.

  He lifted grim hands, thrust thumbs beneath the straps of the pack he carried, flung it to the ground before the door of the building. It gave a metallic sound and Dumarest caught a gleam of mesh through a rip in the clumsily joined material. The two men carrying the pole stepped forward and lowered their burden. A fanged snout showed from among folds of scaled hide, the coils of a barbed tail.

  Arn went to the door, hammered on it, returned to where the rest of the group waited. The wounded man lifted his head, stared about with wild eyes.

  "Haran," he said. "I can't feel my legs! I can't feel a damn thing—"

  The man supporting him on the left eased his weight a little. "Take it easy," he said. "We'll soon have you comfortable."

  "But my legs! Haran! I can't—"

  "Shut up," said the man on his right. "Don't keep on about it. Just shut up and let's get you home." He looked at the scarred man. "That all right, Am?"

  "Sure," said the leader. He nodded to the two men with the pole. "You go with them," he said. "Give them a hand. You might as well get the pot started while you're at it." He spat in the dust as they moved away. "Zardle meat! As tough as granite and as tasty as sand but if you can get it down and keep it down the stuff will keep you alive."

  Dumarest was thoughtful. "Is that what you were hunting? Something for food?"

  Arn nodded.

  "Then why leave the tail? That's probably the best part."

  "It is, but Pete claims the head, skin and tail in return for lending out his nets." Arn turned from the door as something clicked from within. "You're smart," he said. "To know about the tail. Done much hunting?"

  "A little," said Dumarest. "When I've had to. But only for food."

  "Sometimes you win a bonus hunting a zardle," said the scarred man. "If you're lucky you might find a zerd. It's a thing like a round ball of stone right smack in their heads almost touching the brain. Some say that it's a sort of tumor made up of tissue and calcium deposits, minerals too. The things shine like stars when you hold them in your hand. That's why the women like them," he explained. "They wear them for jewelry. As long as they rest on the naked skin they glow with an ever-changing shine. Beautiful."

  "And expensive," said Kalin.

  "You know?"

  "I've seen them," she said. "They change color according to the emotion of the wearer. Some men give them as gifts to their mistresses so as to test their sincerity. But," she ended, "I didn't know they came from inside the skulls of beasts."

  "You know now," said Am. He nodded to them both. "Guess I'll be seeing you around."

  "Wait a minute," said Dumarest quickly. "You've got a pot going. Can we share in it?"

  Arn was curt. "No. We worked to get what's in that pot and we can't afford charity."

  "I'm not talking about charity," said Dumarest. "You said the meat was tough. We've got a little money. How about if we supply something to make it tender?" He waited for the man's reluctant nod. "Go down to the store," he said to Kalin. "Next to where we bought the clothes. Get some tenderizer."

  Arn stared after her as she walked down the street. "A fine woman."

  Dumarest nodded.

  "Qwen had a woman like that," Arn mused.

  "Used to talk about her a lot. Carried a talking likeness of her all the time. God knows why he ever left her." He paused. "We buried it with him."

  "Was he with you on the hunt?"

  "Him and two more. Nine of us—a lucky number. We could have done without that kind of luck. One of the nets gave way. Three dead and Crins got a broken spine. Four men lost for the sake of a plateful of stew."

  "How about Crin?" asked Dumarest. "Is there a chance of medical treatment?"

  "Without money? Not a chance."

  "Then why didn't you leave him? Pass him out easy?" Dumarest spoke without emotion. "He wouldn't have known what was going on. Now he's going to lie there and suffer and starve. Is that what you call mercy?"

  "He had his brothers with him," said Arn. "The ones who were carrying him." He looked at Dumarest. "What would you have done?"

  "Left him there."

  "Yes," said Arn slowly. "I guess you would."

  * * *

  It grew colder as the sun dipped lower beneath the horizon. One of the men stirring the contents of the strutted bag that was their caldron looked up and sniffed the air.

  "It's getting close to winter," he said. "Too close. If we hope to live through it we'd better get in some fuel."

  "Why bother?" A thin piebald stretched his broken boots closer to the fire. "We can go up near the smelter like we did last time."

  "Sure," agreed the cook. "Then the wind changes and another seven of us die from the fumes. Or the guards make a raid and ten more of us wear the collar for 'stealing' their waste heat. No thanks. I'll stay free even if I have to freeze doing it."

  "Free!" The piebald spat into the fire. In the glow of the flames his mottled face writhed in contempt. "How the hell are we free? Free to starve? To die?"

  "We've got a choice," said a man from the shadows. "We don't have to jump when some overseer thumbs a switch."

  "We don't have to eat their food either," snapped the piebald. "You see that food? Good and rich and filling. They dress decent, too. And live in shelters instead of out here on a junk heap. They even get time for recreation," he added. "And a bit of money to spend."

  The man in the shadows laughed. "That's right. Facsimile women to spend it on. Surrogate women and surrogate wine. Living it up by spending pretend money on pretended dissipation. Robots to cuddle and chemicals to disorient the senses. But they can't get really drunk. Not that. They've got to keep a clear head for work." He laughed again. "Do you know why they do it? Give the slaves tokens to use as local cash?"

  The mutant sneered. "Tell me."

  "You can't take away a privilege a man hasn't got. So you give him something he doesn't want to lose. The more he hangs onto it, the greater hold you've got over him. Simple."

  "That's right," said the piebald. "Now tell me one society that doesn't operate in exactly the same way. Listen," he said. "I was born on Zell. My folks worked a farm. Half of what they grew was theirs—less taxes. I guess they never saw more than a third of any crop they raised. And you know what? The tax assessors came around and told them they'd have to pay another ten percent. The king was getting married or something. He let them sweat for two days and then came back and told them how lucky they were. They were one of the chosen few to have their taxes cut by five percent. You know what? They were grateful. Grateful!"

  "Didn't they know they were still going to pay an extra five percent?"

  "Sure they knew. They weren't dumb. Not when it came to figures. But they were so relieved that it was only a five instead of a ten percent increase that they almost kissed the tax assessor's rear."

  A man cleared his throat. "I don't get it. What's the point?"

  The piebald squinted toward him. "We were talking of the slaves, right?"

  "I remember."

  "They've got nothing, so they get given a little and want to hang onto it. But my folks weren't slaves. They didn't wear a collar. They had a right to take all they worked for. Instead they were grateful for someone giving them back a little of what was theirs in the first place. I tell you—they worked a damn sight harder than any collar-man I've ever seen. And they paid their own way. They didn't have any quarter-master handing out fresh clothing, a commissary to issue food, a doctor when they were sick, warm quarters to sleep in and someone to worry about keeping them happy so they would work hard. They had to work hard simply in order to eat. My old man never had a drink in his life aside from some slop he brewed himself. My old woman never even heard of perfume. They lived like animals and died the same way." He glared into the fire. "Don't talk to me about being free," he said tightly. "Don't sell me that bill of goods. I know better."

  A silence fell around the circle, the bulging sac which held the stew bubbled a little and shed vapor. A wind rose, caught the fire, fanned it to leaping flame. Faces swam from the shadows, eyes glittering, teeth dim behind bearded lips.

  "Slavery's not economical," said a voice slowly. "It's cheaper to let people fend for themselves."

  "Then why the collar-men on Chron?" demanded another. "I'll tell you why. Slaves don't strike, don't join unions, can't cause trouble. Those running the mines want to be sure of a reliable source of labor. They want to protect their investment. There's big money tied up here."

  "So why don't you get some?" yelled the piebald. "If you're so smart why are you stranded?"

  "Go to hell!"

  "Hell? Man, I'm already there. Didn't you know?"

  The tension broke with a laugh. Dumarest stirred, felt someone squat at his side. Arn's face glistened in the firelight, the seared skin taut and glowing. Unconsciously he rubbed it. "Philo been stirring it again?"

  "The mutant?"

  "That's the one. Sometimes I figure him for a company man trying to talk us into donning the collar. He sure makes out a good case." He sucked at his teeth. "Well, maybe I've got a cure for that."

  Dumarest was curious. "What is it?"

  "Tell you later," said Arn. "After we've eaten." He lowered his voice. "You'd better leave the girl behind."