"No," said Dumarest. He saw the other's expression. "I couldn't if I wanted to and I don't want to. Not here," he explained. "Not yet. Not until I've learned more about the setup here."

  Arn shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said and then called to the man standing beside the pot. "Hey, how about that stew? Let's eat!"

  Lowtowns were all the same: places where the unfortunate huddled. Holes scooped from the dirt, shacks made of flimsy scraps giving a little visual privacy and nothing else, unpaved lanes winding between noisome dwellings. Temporary camps where stranded travelers stayed until they could haul themselves upward by their bootstraps. There was no drainage, no sanitation, no running water or available power. There was dust and dirt and smell. Unwashed flesh and ragged clothing. The shared communion of a common misfortune.

  Arn lifted his bowl and sucked down the last of his portion. "That was good," he said, smacking his lips. "That tenderizer you contributed, Earl, made all the difference." He yelled to the cook. "Hand me some more."

  He had led the hunting team which had provided the meat. Silently the cook refilled his bowl. He hesitated, looking at Dumarest.

  "Thanks." He took the replenished bowl, ate, chewing determinedly at the gritty meat. Beside him Kalin shuddered as she looked into her bowl.

  "Earl, I can't. This isn't fit for a dog."

  "It's food," he said shortly. "Eat."

  "But—"

  "Eat," he said again. A stranded traveler had no right to be particular, not when he never knew when he would next eat. The stew wasn't good but Dumarest had eaten worse. There were vegetables of a kind—probably those thrown out at the commissary. A slimy thing which could have been some form of root, maybe inedible, but providing bulk and minerals. The flesh of the zardle, water, and something else.

  "Dead yeast," said Arn. "They run a small brewery in the village and Philo managed to get the dumped slime from the bottom of the vats." He gulped and belched. "It sure gives it body." He hesitated, then put aside the battered container. "No," he decided. "I don't want to get soft. Get my stomach used to food and it'll want feeding all the time."

  Across the fire the piebald threw the remains of his food into the flames. "Swill," he shouted. "Stinking swill!"

  Am caught Dumarest by the arm. "Leave him."

  "He threw away food. There are people out there hungry, watching." Dumarest gestured to the ringing dark. Shapes moved indistinctly in the dusk. "Watching," he said again. "You know what a thing like that does to a hungry man?"

  "Sure," admitted the hunter. "It can blow their fuse. Send them in here with rocks and knives. But why should you worry? You look as if you can take care of yourself." He looked past Dumarest to where firelight gleamed on a strand of vagrant hair. "The girl," he said. "You're afraid for her. A rock in the face, a knife, the kick of a boot. I know how it is. But I figure that she can look after things if she has to."

  "Perhaps," said Dumarest. "But I'd rather she didn't have to."

  Philo yelled again as he flung down his bowl. "Do you know what they're eating up in the barracks now? This very minute? Steak! Eggs! Fried chicken! Braised warbill and roast yalmas! Good food. Real food. Stuff you can get your teeth into and taste."

  "Shut up," said a man across the fire.

  The piebald sprang to his feet, snarling. His eyes were bloodshot, wild. "You! You want to make me?" He glared, body crouched, hands slightly extended. "You wanna shut my mouth, you come and do it."

  "You don't have to keep talking about what we're missing," protested the man.

  "That's right," said another. "You want it, you go and get it." He cried out as the piebald sprang across the circle toward him. A boot lashed out and he fell moaning, blood running from his broken mouth.

  The piebald strutted around the clearing, eyes like those of an animal. "Anyone else want to argue? Speak up if you do. Fools!" he sneered. "Living in stinking filth like the dogs that you are!"

  "That's enough," said Dumarest.

  Philo halted, looked at him, body tense, wary. "You object?"

  Arn grabbed Dumarest by the arm. "Don't bother, Earl. There's something coming up that'll stop his nonsense. When they see what—"

  Dumarest jerked free his arm as the piebald ran forward. There was a smack as he caught the boot swinging toward his face. He gripped, twisted, threw it away as the piebald screamed and spun in order to save his hip. Rising, he stepped forward in the firelight.

  "Earl!" Kalin said. "No, Earl, please—"

  He ignored her as the piebald rose to his feet. The man crouched in a fighter's stance, hands slightly extended, the fingers of one touching the wrist of the other. He moved, feet stamping the dust, eyes fastened on Dumarest.

  "You shouldn't have done that," he crooned. "Man, you just shouldn't have done that. I'm going to teach you a lesson now. And after, well, that little girl of yours is going to need a man to look after her. A real man." Teeth shone white between parted lips. "And you're not going to be much good for anyone soon."

  His fingers twitched and firelight splintered on polished steel. He surged toward Dumarest, his left arm extended, the elbow crooked, the edge of the stiffened palm swinging toward the throat. His right hand swept back, forward, the six-inch blade swinging in a vicious arc toward the pit of the stomach.

  He was fast, but he had signaled his intentions and Dumarest was waiting. He stepped sideways, moving his left so as to clear the swing of the chopping palm, his right hand dropping, gripping the wrist of the hand which held the knife, lifting it up, using its own momentum to swing the blade in a semicircle which ended at the piebald's throat.

  The man choked and staggered, blood gushing from his severed jugular, eyes almost starting from their sockets as he realized what had happened. "You—" he said. "You—"

  Dumarest stepped away to avoid the fountain of blood. His face was cold, hard, registering neither pity nor satisfaction. He had killed in order to prevent dying.

  Arn rose, stood beside Dumarest, stared somberly down at the body. "Fast," he said. "I've never seen anyone move as fast as you did then. One second you were standing there, the blade swinging toward your gut, the next Philo is dead."

  "Check his pockets," suggested Dumarest. He leaned forward as Arn whistled. "Something?"

  "A pass for the commissary," said the other man thoughtfully. He tapped a slip of plastic against his other hand. "No wonder Philo always looked well-fed. He was working for the company as I suspected. They gave him free food and maybe a bonus for every recruit he talked into wearing the collar. Not that he would have had much luck after tonight."

  "That cure you talked about?"

  "Yes." Arn tensed as a whistle shrilled in the darkness. From beyond the village, lights bloomed in a brilliant swathe to beat the night. "This is it," he said. "Let's get over there."

  Chapter Eight

  A MAN WAS being punished when they arrived. He stood in the center of the lighted area, raised on a platform so that everyone could see the ghastly pallor of his face. His eyes looked like holes punched in snow. The gleam of metal shone from around his throat—the collar all slaves wore and which, at the touch of a control, would flood nerve and brain with searing agony. But that pain was a private thing, coming close at times to providing amusement in the jerkings and twistings of protesting flesh: ridiculous contortions without apparent cause. None of those watching would smile at what would happen to this man.

  The area was thronged with spectators. Slaves for the most part—the object lesson was for their benefit—ranked in neat files, their overseers watchful as they stood at the rear. A section had been reserved for the civilians: those from the village, the idle and curious and sadistic, the bored and those who were about to be educated. Incredibly the place had a festive air.

  Kalin stared at the focus of the lights. "That man, Earl. What are they going to do to him?"

  "They're punishing him," he said shortly. "He's up there suffering at this very moment. Not physically," he admitted, "but mentally because he knows what is going to happen to him." He squeezed her arm. "Don't try to look ahead," he warned.

  "I won't." She stood on tiptoe, craning, eager to see what was going on. "Why are we here, Earl?"

  "Arn wants to show everyone what can happen to those who wear the collar," said Earl. "Counter-propaganda to beat Philo's suggestions."

  "I see." She nodded, understanding. "That man," she said. "The one standing there waiting to be punished. What did he do?"

  A stooped scavenger from the village who was standing nearby turned and stared at her. "He was smart," he said bitterly. "He tried to help a friend. Someone who wanted to run out on his contract. He figured out a way to remove the collar without blowing the charge. His friend reported him for the sake of immediate freedom and a Low passage on the first ship." He spat. "Some friend!"

  Kalin frowned. "Charge?"

  "The collars can only be unlocked with a key," said Dumarest. He resisted the impulse to finger his throat. "The band contains an explosive. Break the collar or open it in any way other than with the key and the charge detonates. It will blow the head off the wearer and the hands off anyone touching it."

  "How do you know?" she said.

  "I know."

  "For certain? Have you worn a collar?"

  "Once," he said tightly. "On Toy. Why do you ask?"

  "No real reason," she said. "It's just that on Solis we have serfs who wear collars. But they aren't loaded with explosives. They are just for identification purposes so that people will know to whom they are bonded."

  "Solis sounds a nice place," he said. "Primitive, but nice. I hope it stays that way. No one who has never tried it should think of forcing a man to wear a bomb around his neck."

  He lifted his head to watch the poor devil on the platform. Speakers echoed with a studied account of what he had done to deserve this punishment. A psychological semanticist had written the statement and, somehow, he made the lonely figure seem dirty and vile and unfit for the company of decent men.

  Kalin sucked in her breath. "No," she whispered. "Dear God, not that! No!"

  Dumarest dug his fingers into her arm. "Don't scan," he warned. "Don't do it!"

  Her scream rose above the calculated pitch of the speakers.

  "What's the matter with her?" The scavenger made as if to come forward. "They haven't even started yet."

  "She's ill." Dumarest looked at the contorted face, the twisted mouth. Damn the girl for being curious! "Something she ate," he said. "Poison. I've got to get her to a doctor."

  Faces turned, ringing them like watchful discs pricked with curious eyes. Her screams tore at nerve and stomach. Dumarest clamped his hand over her mouth, scooped her from the dirt and, cradling her in his arms, thrust his way toward the edge of the watchers. Overseers stared coldly as they passed. The echo of pounding feet brought Am panting alongside.

  "They don't like you leaving the show," he said, jerking his head at the cloaked figures. "You don't have to come if you're free, but once you do, they reckon you should see it out." He sucked in his cheeks. "Me too," he added. "I want everyone to realize just what being a slave means."

  "I'm convinced," said Dumarest curtly. He lowered his hand from Kalin's face and looked into her eyes. "Are you all right now?"

  She flushed. "I'm sorry, Earl. It's just that—"

  "Forget it," he said quickly. "Don't think about it. Find something else to do." He frowned, thinking. What? What? "Crin," he said. "The man with the broken back. Where is he?"

  Arn jerked his head. "Back at Lowtown. His brothers are looking after him. Haran and Wisar. Why?"

  Dumarest paused. The girl needed something to take her mind off what was going to happen beneath the lights. Was happening as far as she was concerned. Despite her promises she would continue to scan the event, like a finger unable to resist touching a sore. To nurse the sick man would be to raise a defense—unless she replaced one horror with another.

  "We'll go and see him," decided Dumarest. "We might be of some use."

  Nothing could be worse than what was about to happen to the unfortunate slave.

  * * *

  Crin lived with his two brothers in a sagging shack set against a mound of time-settled rubbish. The walls and roof were of fragments: fiberboard, plastic, sheets of protective wrapping. One side was open, a dirty length of material serving to close the entrance against storm or intruders. It was a slum set in reeking dirt with rags for beds and a guttering flame for illumination. The candle was made of grease poured into a tin around a wick of twisted rag.

  Beneath it Crin lay supine, reflected light dancing in his open eyes, his lips parted as if he were smiling. Wisar squatted beside him, his voice a soft drone.

  "… and there's a field reaching down to the river, all green with soft grass and dotted with little yellow flowers. You're running over the grass and heading toward the river. Jennie is waiting down there. She's got on her best green slip and her legs and feet are bare. You're going to go swimming together, but not yet. First you have to make betrothal chains for each other from the yellow flowers. You run along, side by side, and each time one of you picks a flower you call out the other's name. Can you hear them? Jennie… Crin… Jennie… Crin… Jennie… Crin…"

  Dumarest looked at Haran. "What goes on?"

  "We had a monk come in," said Haran. He looked tired, his eyes red and face strained with anxiety. "Crin was a regular attendant at the church, thank God. That meant he was quickly susceptible to hypnotic suggestion. Brother Vesta managed to ease his pain and throw him into a light trance. Now Wisar's feeding him stimulus suggestions. Building up a synthetic life so as to fill his dream world." He knotted his big hands, looked down at his fists. "It makes you feel so damned helpless," he said. "Your own brother, lying there with a ruined spine and there's nothing you can do. Not a damn thing!"

  "What's the verdict?" Arn came pushing his way into the shack. "What did the monk say?" From the outside he'd heard every word.

  "The spine's gone," said Haran tiredly. "He needs a section transplant before he can walk again. But it's worse than that. Unless he gets some sort of treatment soon he'll die."

  "Treatment?" Arn frowned. "What treatment?"

  "One of the barbs managed to break the skin and introduce infection." Haran lifted his hands in helpless anger. "I told him to wrap up well! To make sure his padding was secure! The damn fool just wouldn't listen!" He sagged, deflated. "It doesn't matter now. Unless he gets curative therapy he'll be dead within a week."

  Kalin made a choked sound deep in her throat. She stood just within the opening, the dancing flame casting shadows on her face. Her eyes were wide as she looked at the sick man.

  "Pain," she said. "Pain."

  Haran nodded. "The infection is attacking the nerves. Not even hypnosis can help much once it gets a real hold. Nothing can, aside from the specific antidote. Unless he gets it he'll suffer just as much if he'd been slowly lowered into boiling oil." He took a deep breath. "But he won't suffer. I'll see to that."

  "You're going to pass him out?" Arn nodded. "It's the best thing you can do. You should—"

  "Shut up!" Haran glared, eyes bulging. "You think I'm going to kill him? My own brother! What kind of animal are you?"

  "Steady," said Dumarest. "He meant well."

  "Like he did out on the hunt? When Crin was smashed down?" Specks of froth showed at the corners of Haran's mouth. "He wanted to kill him then. Kill him as if he'd been an injured dog. Thank God, Wisar and I were there to stop him!"

  "All right," soothed Dumarest. The man was almost hysterical with rage and fear. "No one is going to hurt him. What do you intend to do?"

  "Have we any choice?" Wisar rose from where he squatted beside the sick man. "We've got to get him medical help. To pay for it one or both of us will have to sell ourselves to the company. Wear the collar," he added. "Become slaves."

  "You're crazy!" Am was incredulous. "You can't mean it. Do you know what happened out near the village tonight? What is still happening? A man is slowly being tortured to death because he broke the rules. Because he wears a collar. Do you really want to throw away your freedom?"

  Haran was bitter. "What freedom? The freedom to watch my brother die in agony? If he wasn't infected I'd be willing to wait. To hope to find a zerd or raise the money in some other way. But we can't wait. If we're to save him we've got to act now. There's nothing else to do."

  "Earl," whispered Kalin. "Is he right?"

  Dumarest shook his head. The logical thing was to let the sick man die. Give him an easy passing and make a quick end. But the brothers weren't logical. They were fanatical in regard to their family ties, more than fanatical. Dumarest wondered what held them so close, why they had ever left home.

  "We've got to help them, Earl," said Kalin softly. "We can't let them sell themselves."

  He was blunt. "Why not? What are they to us?"

  "Earl!" Her voice faltered. "Earl!"

  He gripped her arm and led her outside, away from the shack, the air of sickness and defeat. Behind them the candle guttered, throwing odd configurations on the translucent material of the roof and walls. Overhead the stars glittered, coldly hostile in the now solidly black curve of the sky. From the assembly area beyond the village a faint wind blew: chill, numbing, seeming to carry the echoes of ghastly screams.

  "You've worn a collar, Earl," she said before he could speak. "You know what it's like."

  He waited.

  "I can see him, Earl," she whispered. "Faint but getting stronger. You cannot imagine how he is going to suffer if left without help."

  "But he isn't going to be left, is he?" Dumarest was bitter. "You know that because you can see just what is going to happen. Well, tell me. What does the clear picture say? The one that really shows the future?"

  She gripped his arm, looked up into his face, her eyes filled with dancing lights from the guttering candle.

  "I love you, Earl. I want you to do this. Not because I tell you that it is inevitable but because you want to do it for me. For me, Earl. Please!"