The Warlock Wandering

PART I WOLMAR

"Nay, Papa! I am too old to need one to guide and ward me!"

Rod shook his head. "When you're fifteen, maybe— maybe. But even then, you won't be old enough to take care of an eight-year-old little brother—nor a ten-year-old, for that matter. Not to mention a thirteen-year-old sister."

"I am ten already!" The little girl jammed her fists on her hips and glared up at him with a jutting chin.

Rod turned to her, suppressing a smile, but Gwen was already chiding gently. "Mayhap when thou art fourteen years aged, my sweet, and thy brother Magnus is sixteen, I'll dare leave the others in thy charge. Yet now…" She turned to Big Brother. "… thou art but twelve."

"Tis a worthy age," Magnus declared. "Assuredly might I care for myself." He turned back to Rod. "Many another boy of my age doth already aid his father in plowing, and…"

"Other boys your age are pages, and taking squire lessons from the local knight." Rod nodded. "But in both cases, please notice the presence of an adult—and those boys aren't taking care of little brothers and sisters!"

"Enough of such chatter!" A foot and a half of elf stepped up beside Rod's knee, arms akimbo, frowning up at the four children. "Be still and heed me, or 'twill be much the worse for thee!"

Rod had a fleeting vision of coming home to four little frogs in nightshirts and nightcaps. The children fell silent. Glowering and truculent, but silent. Even though the smallest of them was twice Puck's size, they all knew that the elf's idea of fun could be more devastating than their parents' notion of punishment.

"Thy parents do wish to take an evening to themselves," the Puck rumbled, "to think of naught but one another's company. The coming-together that this allows them is as much to thy benefit as to theirs—and well thou knowest that they could not thus rejoice in one another's company, an they were continually concerned over what mishaps might befall thee. Yet my biding with thee will allow them assurance sufficient to ease their minds from care, for the space of an evening."

By this time, four sets of eyes were cast toward the ground. Cordelia was drawing imaginary circles with her toe. Rod didn't say anything, but he eyed the elf with renewed respect.

"Bid them good night, then," Puck commanded, "and assure them thou wilt cheerfully bide in my care till they return."

Reluctantly, and with ill grace, the children came up, one by one, for a quick peck on the cheek and a perfunctory hug, for Cordelia and Gregory, and a manly handshake, for Magnus and Geoffrey (but with a peck on the cheek for Mama).

"Go thy ways, now," Puck said to Rod and Gwen, "and concern thyselves not with the fates of thy children. I warrant their safety, though a full score of knights ride against them—for a legion of elves shall defend!"

"Not to mention that you, yourself, could easily confound a dozen." Rod bowed in acknowledgement. "I thank you, Puck."

"Bless thee, Robin." Gwen hid a smile.

Puck winced. "I prithee, lady! Be mindful of my sensibilities!"

"'Tis myself who doth bless thee," Gwen assured him. "I did not invoke any Other. Yet do I thank thee, too, Sprite."

"'Tis ever my pleasure." Puck doffed his cap with a flourish, and bowed. "Ever, when the lady's so beauteous. Go thy ways, now, free of care—and hasten, ere the gloaming surrenders to Night!"

They followed his advice. Rod closed the door behind them, and they walked five steps down the path, counting under their breaths. Then, "Six," Rod said, and, "seven…"

On cue, four small faces filled the window behind them, with cries of "God e'en!"

"Good night, Mama!"

"Well betide thee!"

Rod grinned, and Gwen answered with a pursed smile. They waved, then turned and strode off down the path.

"We're lucky," Rod reminded her.

"Indeed." Gwen sighed. "But 'twill be pleasant to have some few hours to ourselves once more."

They wandered into the twilit forest, with his arm about her, she with a dreamy, contented smile, he just contented.

"And wither wilt thou carry me away, my lord?" she murmured.

Rod smiled down at her. "I ran into a little old lady who was trying to haul some firewood home on her back—and having very rough going, stumbling and cursing, and needing to put it down every ten feet or so. So I let her ride Fess, and I carried the wood as far as the crossroads where her son was going to meet her. She thanked me a lot and, favor for favor, took me on a short detour and showed me a little glade with a beautiful mini-pond." He heaved a sigh. "I swear I never knew there was something so pretty, so close to home—except, of course, the ones who are in it."

She looked up at him, amused; but he saw the dreaminess behind the smile, and shook a finger at her. "Now, don't you dare try to tell me it's just like the days when we were courting! We only got to know each other in the middle of a minor civil war."

"Aye; yet did I bethink me of the days thereafter."

"Right after the war, we got married."

She snuggled her head up against his chest. "Tis what I did mind me of."

Rod stared at her for a moment. Then he smiled, and rested his cheek against her head.

Suddenly the woodland path opened out. The branches swung away, and they found themselves gazing at a perfect pool, its waters like a gem. Terraced rocks came down to its edge, festooned with flowers. Branches arched over it like a sheltering dome.

Gwen drew in a breath. "Oh, 'tis beautiful!"

Then she saw the unicorn.

It stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the pond to lower its dainty muzzle to the still water, drinking.

Rod held his breath, but even under the spell of the moment, his mind automatically registered the fact that the water must be extremely pure, if a unicorn was willing to drink it.

Then the silver beast lifted its head, to look directly at them.

Gwen gasped in wonder. Then, slowly, she moved around the pool, entranced.

Rod followed right behind her, scarcely daring to breathe.

As Gwen drew close, the unicorn stepped back. Gwen hesitated.

"Sorry, dear," Rod murmured.

"I will never regret," she answered softly. "But, my lord, there is not only wariness in those eyes—there is imploring. Could it need our aid?"

"Sought us out, you mean?" Rod frowned—then stiffened, as alarm bells went off in the back of his mind. "Gwen—even on Gramarye, unicorns don't exist…"

Gwen shook her head. "Be mindful of witch-moss, my lord. On Gramarye, aught that an old aunt may imagine the whiles she doth tell a tale, can come into being, an she be a witch unknowing."

But Rod didn't answer. He was gazing about him with every sense open, alert for the slightest thing out of place, his awareness widening to encompass the whole of the glen, the patterns of light that the sunset painted on the shrubbery, the rustling of leaves, the whisper of leather, and the slight chink of metal behind him…

He whirled about, sword whipping out; the pike smashed past his shoulder and into the ground. "Look out!" he cried, but even as Gwen turned, another cudgel cracked into her skull. She crumpled, and Rod howled with rage, full berserker madness. The glade about him seemed to darken with the hue of blood. He bellowed as he leaped forward, chopping with a sword that burst into flame. His opponent leaped back, eyes alight and wary, but without fear.

His buddies closed in from three sides. Rod knew there was one behind him, too, and he let a glance of his rage dart backward. Flame burst, and somebody screamed. Rod parried a blow from the center man while he glared at the thug to his left. The man slammed back against a tree and slumped to the ground, but the man to his right stepped in, and swung down hard. A crack echoed through Rod's head, filling the world with pain. Through the red mist, he felt himself swaying. He swung his arm with the movement, slashing, and the thug fell back with a howl, a red line beginning to widen across his cheek. But Rod had forgotten his back; rope hissed and burned across his neck, and yanked his feet out from under him. A soft body plummeted against him, knocking the breath out of him. Then they were dragging, bumping, over rough ground, and he realized, dazed, that the body was Gwen. He howled and slashed at the net around them, but his sword caught in the ropes. He tugged at it in fury, hearing somebody call, "We have them! Now— heave! Two meters more!"

Rod struggled frantically to get his feet under him. Whatever lay at the end of those two meters, he wasn't going to like.

Then, through the mesh, he saw it—a jury-rigged thing of telescoping legs, framing a triangular arch that showed only a blaze of sunlight, harsh on his eyes. He recognized the transdimensional gate that had taken himself and his family to the alternate universe of Tir Chlis, and he bellowed in rage and panic, channeling every ounce of it at the gadget——

He was an instant too late. The net cut into his back, heaved up, and shot through, just as the contraption behind him burst into flame.

Sickened, he struggled against the ropes, got his feet under him, and surged up to stand. He thrashed the net off him, and whirled about, wild-eyed.

In every direction, as far as he could see, grassland swept away to the horizon. The air was filled with the fragrance of growth, and the sunshine enveloped him with warmth. It wasn't very far up—which was easy to tell, because the land was flat as a chessboard. He turned, staring, amazed at the silence, all the more vivid for the few faint bird-calls and the murmurings of insects. The land rolled up behind the net, up and up to a high ridge. Everywhere, everywhere was grass, waist-high.

It wasn't Gramarye.

Rod glared about him, powerless to do anything about it. They'd been very neatly caught, he and his wife…

Fury transformed into horror. The ambush had been admirably planned; they'd knocked Gwen out in the first few moments. But how far out? He dropped to one knee, clawing the net away from her, cradling her head in the crook of an elbow, patting her face, caressing it, slapping very gently. "Gwen! Come to! Wake up—please! Are you there? Wake up!" He poised his mouth in front of her lips, felt for breath, and relaxed with a sigh. She was alive. Everything else was secondary—she was alive!

Belatedly, he remembered his psi powers—not surprising, since he'd only had them for a year or two. He stilled, listening closely with his mind—and heard her dream. He smiled, insinuating himself into it, asking her to wake, to speak to him—and she did.

"Nay, I am well now," she murmured. "Twas but a moment's discomfort…"

"A little more than that, I think." Gently, Rod probed the side of her head. She was still; then, suddenly, she gasped. Rod nodded. "Goose egg already—well, a robin's—but it'll be a goose egg."

She reached up to touch the spot tenderly, then winced. "What did hap, my lord? I mind me thou didst turn, with a warcry…"

"A gang of thugs jumped us. They knocked you out on the first swing—and they had me outnumbered. Caught us up in a net, and dragged us through a dimensional gate."

She smiled. "A net? Nay, I must needs think they did find thy skill too great for them."

"Why, thank you." Rod smiled down at her. "Of course, there's also the possibility they were under orders not to kill us—and fighting is more difficult when you have to knock somebody out, but not kill him."

Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou think they abjured slaying?"

"Because they used cudgels, not pikes. But, when they couldn't take us alive, they settled for kidnapping us out of our own time and place." Rod frowned, looking around. "Which means there should be somebody around, waiting for a second try."

"Aye, my lord. If they wished us alive, they must needs have had strong reason." She gazed up at him. "What is this 'dimensional gate' of which thou didst speak? I catch, from thy mind, memories of Tir Chlis."

Rod nodded. "Same type. But how'd they know where to waylay us? That gate had to be set up ahead of time."

"The crone," Gwen murmured.

Rod smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of course! The whole thing was a setup! She didn't really need my help… she was a Futurian agent!"

"They knew thou wouldst not refuse to assist one in need."

Rod nodded. "So good old helpful me gave an old lady a hand, and she bit it! Told me right where to go—and set up her trap." He shook his head. "Remind me not to do anyone any favors."

"I would never wish that," Gwen said firmly. "Yet in future, let us beware of all gifts."

"Yeah—we'll open them under water." Rod looked around, frowning. "Wonder what alternate universe they've shanghaied us into this time?"

A ululating cry slashed through the air, and thirty purple-skinned fur-kilted men rose up out of the tall grass a hundred yards away.

Rod and Gwen stared.

A spear arced through the air, to bury its head in the earth half a meter from Rod's feet.

Rod snapped out of his daze. "Wherever we are, we ain't welcome. Run, dear!"

They whirled and charged, Gwen gathering up her skirts. "Our abductors could at the least have sent a broomstick!"

"Yes, very careless of them." But Rod chewed at the inside of his lip. "Still, maybe you had the right idea there, dear. Let's try it and see. Ready?" He slipped an arm around her. "Up we go!"

They leaped into the air. Rod put all his attention into staying up; the natives became secondary, dim and distant. They rose up a good twenty feet.

"Turn," Gwen suggested.

Rod banked, worrying about the "why" later. Until he got good at this game, he'd have to let Gwen do the steering.

She had novel ideas. They swooped back toward the natives like avenging furies.

The savages screeched to a halt, partly from surprise, mostly from alarm. Good little victims weren't supposed to attack.

"Attempt a war-cry," Gwen advised.

Rod grinned, and let out a whoop that would have shamed all the rebels in Dixie.

That was a mistake; it gave the savages something familiar. They snapped out of their shock and closed ranks in front of the flying Gallowglasses.

"Wrong tactic," Rod decided. "Hold tight." He thought up hard, and soared way high over the savages' heads, thoroughly out of bowshot. Then they swung down.

"Wherefore so low, my lord?" Gwen asked.

"Just in case I run out of lift."

Gwen blanched. "If we are going to strike the earth, my lord, I would prefer not to fly so swiftly."

"Don't worry, babe, I can stop on a dime. Of course, it doesn't do the dime much good…"

The ground rose up beneath them. They rose with it, too, of course—and the whooping barbarians were growing smaller very quickly, behind them. Up, and over the rise— and the savages disappeared below the curve of the ridge.

"Surely they must be the half of a mile behind us, now, my lord," Gwen protested. "Will they not have given up by now?"

Rod nodded. "If you say so, darling. I just hope they were listening."

They slowed, and dropped gently to the ground. Gwen smiled as her heels touched earth. "Thou dost progress amazingly in thine use of thy powers, my lord."

"Oh, you know—just practice." But Rod felt a thoroughly irrational glow at her praise. "I must say, though, I'm surprised it didn't put more of a shock into our hunters."

"Aye." Gwen frowned. "What manner of men were they?"

"Oh—just your average barbarians."

"But—they were purple!"

"The human race is amazing in its diversity," Rod said piously. "On the other hand, you never know—the color might wash off in a good rain."

Gwen stared. "Dost'a mean they do paint themselves from head to toe?"

Rod nodded. "Not exactly unknown. In fact, if it weren't for the color, I'd guess we were on the Scottish side of

Hadrian's Wall in a country called Great Britain, about 100 A.D."

"Were there truly such?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Sure were, dear—check any history book, if you can find one. Painted themselves blue, in fact." Rod frowned. "Of course, that theme has been pretty well pict over by now…"

Clamoring howls drifted down the wind again.

Rod's head snapped up and around.

Over the ridge they came—purple, waving spears, and howling like the Eumenides.

"Time to hit the woad!" Rod caught Gwen around the waist again.

"Not so high this time, an it please thee, my lord."

"Anything to please, my dear." Rod frowned, concentrating. The scenery seemed to dim about him, and they rose just to the tops of the grain.

"Forward," Gwen murmured.

They shot straight ahead, faster than a speeding spear (just in case).

"They may not be much on technology, but they've got Terrans beat all hollow on perverse perseverance."

"Tis even so. How long can they endure?"

Rod looked back, letting the natives' style percolate through the filters of his concentration. "Let's see—they're doing a lope, not an all-out run… Hey, those guys aren't even trying! Not really."

"Scandalous. How long can they maintain such a pace?"

Rod shrugged. "As long as we can, I'd guess."

"And how long is that, my lord?"

Rod shrugged again. "I just had dinner. Six or seven hours, at least." He looked down at Gwen. "Any particular direction you wanted me to go?"

She shook her head. "All bearings are equal, when thou knowest not thy destination."

Rod nodded. "I can sympathize with that; I was young once, myself."

She glanced up at him. "Thou art not greatly anxious, my lord."

"No, not really. These guys haven't invented anti-aircraft guns yet… How about you? Worried?"

"Nay." She leaned back in his arms with a peaceful sigh.

Vivid skins and violent yells erupted over the horizon in front.

Rod stared. "How'd they get around there so quickly?"

"Nay, 'tis a different band. These are stained yellow-green."

"Chartreuse, I think they call it—but you're right." Rod frowned. "I don't feel like attacking again. Shall we?"

Gwen nodded. "Turn, an't please thee, my lord. I have no wish to shed blood."

They banked around in a 180-degree turn—just as their previous pursuers came over the rise behind.

"Turn, and turn again." Rod veered ninety degrees. "Pilot to navigator. Setting course perpendicular to angle of pursuit. To the vector go the broils."

Gwen glanced back. "They do join forces in pursuit of us, my lord."

"Too bad." Rod scowled, "I was hoping they might take time out to fight each other."

"United they ran," Gwen sighed. "Why did we turn to the left, my lord?"

"I'm a liberal."

"Wherefore?"

"Why not? Since I don't know where I'm going… Say, what's that coming over the rise ahead?"

"More savages," Gwen answered.

"That's a good reason for a turn to the right." Rod veered through a U-turn. "What color of paint were these boys wearing, dear?"

"Orange, my lord."

Rod shuddered. "What a color scheme! Y' know, if any more of them show up in front of us, we're going to be boxed in."

"I prithee, do not speak of it my lord."

"Okay, I won't. I'll just get ready to climb. You sure you can't fly?"

Gwen shook her head. "Without a broomstick, I cannot."

"Union rules," Rod sighed.

A spear arced over his head and buried itself in the grass ten feet ahead. Rod watched it go by. "Maybe it's just as well you're next to me. With their marksmanship, you're better off with the target."

Gwen watched another spear arc overhead—by a good twenty feet. "I think they do not regard us highly as enemies, my lord. Certes, they cannot have sent picked troops to fight us."

"Everyone here is a Pict troop. Would you mind a little more speed, dear?"

"Certes, I would welcome it." Gwen glanced behind her. "The air is clear of spears, my lord."

"Okay, now!" Rod thought hard, and they shot ahead through the grass as though the ghost of Caracatus were hot on their heels. The yells diminished behind them, very quickly. But they boosted to howling level.

"Well, we're out of the trap," Rod sighed, "unless something comes up over the next rise."

They swung up and over the rise—and saw a clear, straight plane sheering across the horizon.

"A wall!" Gwen cried.

"It can't be!" Rod stared. Then he frowned. "How close can parallel universes get? Gwen, I'm taking care of the flying chores; you do a little mind-reading and see what language the people behind that Wall are speaking."

Gwen's eyes lost focus for a moment, then cleared. "They do speak our tongue, my lord."

Rod's frown deepened. "Odd… but the Roman conquerers weren't the only ones to build walls. There were the Chinese—and, come to think of it, several of the planets in the Terran Sphere, during their frontiering days…"

"I think I ken thy meaning…"

"I'll explain it when we're not being chased. See anything resembling a gate?"

"Yonder, my lord." Gwen pointed. "Timbers."

A dark rectangle in the stone, lintel and leaves.

"Yeah, that. That's where we head for. Wonder what this place is like?"

"We shall discover that directly," Gwen murmured.

The gate zoomed up at them.

"Pretend you're running." Rod started pumping his legs like a veteran miler. Gwen gathered up her skirts and tripped merrily along beside him.

Rod dropped the flying power and dug in his heels, plowing to a stop right at the gate, and hammered on the huge oaken leaves with his fist. "Hey! Help! Open up! Let us in! 'Fear! Fire! Foes!' Especially the 'Foes' part!"

He stopped and listened. Silence, total silence—except for the howling behind them, which was showing a definite Doppler shift—the approaching kind.

Rod stepped back and scanned the top of the wall. "Something's wrong here. I don't see any sentries."

Gwen frowned, her eyes losing focus. "They are there, my lord. Yet they feel great caution."

"Why? Just because they've never seen us before, and this whole thing could be a ploy to con them into opening their front door." He cocked his head to the side. "Come to think of it, I suppose I do look a little like Ulysses…"

"Mayhap, my lord, but canst thou not convince them of our honesty?"

"How about the direct approach?" Rod wound up a leg and slammed a kick at the middle of the doors. "Hey! We're being chased by wild Indians! Open up in there! Let the cavalry out!"

"Cease your pounding, you panicking prat!" bellowed a voice overhead.

Rod stepped back and looked up.

A scowling, fleshy man in a loose shirt, with an unshaven jaw, and a surly hangover glowered down at them. He pressed a hand to his head. "There, that's better. You were splitting me head open." And he disappeared again. "Good idea!" Rod yelled. "Come back here and let us in—or I will split it open, and not just by yelling!"

"You'll have to wait till we finish the hand," the voice growled faintly from above. Several other voices snarled agreement.

"But… but… but…" Rod gave up and turned his attention to his wife. "What kind of an outfit is this?"

"We are accompanied, my lord," Gwen murmured.

Rod whirled and looked behind him.

A long line of multi-colored men was drawn up at the skyline, leaning on their spears, watching.

With a gnashing groan, the gate opened. The man who had spoken from the wall above stood in the opening, grinning. "Full house," he announced."My pot."

"It's considerable." Rod eyed the man's midriff He looked on up to a rum-blossom nose beside a livid scar, topped with a black thatch. The shirt was white, or had been. The belt underscored the midriff, holding up green uniform pants which were tucked into black boots (in crying need of a shine).

"Well," he growled, "don't just stand there gawking. Come in, if your need's so frantic."

"Oh, yes." Rod shut his mouth and stepped through the gateway, his arm carefully around Gwen.

The slob's eyes lit at the sight of her, but he waved a hand in signal to someone on top of the wall anyway. The gate started to swing shut, and the man waved at the savages just before it closed. A great oaken bar, about of a size to fit the huge iron brackets on the inside of the gate, lay on the ground nearby, but the slob ignored it. He turned back toward them, and caught sight of Gwen again. Interest gleamed feebly through the hangover, and he looked her up and down. Gwen flushed, and glared at him.

Rod cleared his throat loudly.

The slob looked up at him and saw the glare. The hang-over struggled with lust, and lost. The slob grumbled, by way of a face-saver, "Where'd you get the fancy clothes?"

"Where'd you get the booze?" Rod countered.

Caution flickered in the man's eyes, and they turned opaque.

"Well, ye're in," he grunted, and turned away.

Rod stared. "Hey, wait a minute!"

The slob stopped, threw a despairing glance to the heavens, and turned back. "What now?"

"Where are we supposed to go?"

"Wherever you want to," the slob grunted, turning away.

Rod stood, a moment, gaping.

He shrugged and turned back to Gwen. "Might as well follow him, I suppose."

"We might, indeed," she agreed, and they turned to climb the long, sloping ramp that led to the ramparts.

As he climbed the ramp, he noticed that it was poured plasticrete. So was the Wall. Weathered, and buttressed with props here and there, but plasticrete nonetheless. "Well, so much for the Romans," he muttered.

"My lord?"

"This stuff is plasticrete," he explained. "It wasn't even invented until about 2040 A.D. So we can't be in Roman Britain—that was a good sixteen hundred years earlier."

"I have no knowledge of this." Gwen frowned."'Tis for thee to say. In what world would we be, then?"

Rod rubbed his chin, looking around him. "We might— just might—be in our own universe, Gwen. No, not Gramarye, of course—another world, circling another sun." He looked down at her. "It couldn't be Terra, of course."

"What is 'Terra'?"

For a moment, Rod was galvanized. That a Terran human should not even know the name of the planet that gave birth to her species… ! But he caught himself, remembering that Gramarye had never exactly been strong on history. In fact, its inhabitants didn't even know there were any worlds other than their own.

"Terra is the world your ancestors came from, dear— the planet that all human beings ultimately came from. It's the home world of our kind."

Gwen was silent for a moment, digesting that.

As she did, they came out onto the top of the Wall. The ramparts stretched away before them, dwindling into the distance, a concrete channel cutting four feet down into the plasticrete.

A group of men knelt and squatted around a fire near the top of the ramp. Like the slob, they wore white shirts, green trousers, and black boots—but most of them had green jackets, too, fastened up to the throat. Their sleeves held insignia—or patches of lighter color, where the emblems had been. Uniforms, Rod realized, and right after that, They're soldiers!

Gwen's eyes widened; she was listening to his thoughts.

They didn't seem to be very well-disciplined soldiers, though. Either that, or there wasn't any war going at the moment. Rod heard the rustle of cards and the click of chips.

The soldiers looked up, saw Gwen, and looked harder.

She smiled, politely but firmly.

Something like a hungry purr arose from the soldiers. The nearest, a sergeant, rose to his feet. He straightened up to eight inches taller than Rod, and about four inches wider, three-quarters muscle, the rest fat. He had an ugly face and a leering grin, and a possessive manner as he stepped towards Gwen.

Rod raised a hand, palm out. It jarred against the man's chest, jolting him to a stop. He looked down at Rod's arm in surprise. He pushed against it tentatively a few times, then said in disbelief, "It holds!" He gave Rod a nod of approval. "You're well enough muscled for such a small fellow, ain't you?"

"Why, thank you." Irony in Rod's smile. "Now, just step back to the game, why don't you?"

The other soldiers watched, buzzard-eyed.

The sergeant grinned wickedly and shook his head."Bear ye not too rawly, lad." He took in Rod's doublet and hose. "A juggler, belike, or a clown. Well, learn then, lad, that women be property common on the Wall."

He turned away to Gwen, batting Rod's arm out of the way.

It didn't bat.

Rod tightened his hold on the man's jacket. "Now, just go on back to the game, Sergeant. Be a good fellow."

"Poor manners for a guest," the slob growled from the sidelines.

"Poorer manners for a host," Rod retorted, "trying to rape a guest's…"

"Rape??!!?" The big soldier stared.

He threw back his head, roaring laughter, then doubled over, clutching his belly. "A woman on the Wall, needing rape!"

"They couldn't," the slob explained. "They come, oh, quite willingly, yes."

Rod lifted and shoved; the big soldier staggered back a few steps, still laughing. Rod stepped back, too, relaxing into a crouch. "This one," he said grimly, "doesn't."

The soldier quit laughing abruptly, and sobered into a narrow-eyed glare.

"Teach him manners, Thaler," the slob growled.

My lord, Gwen's thoughts said in Rod's head, there are loose stones on the ground nearby. I might…

No! Rod thought back. You want to start a witch-hunt? The natives could handle seeing us fly—their culture still believes in magic. But these boys are civilized! They have to kill things they don't understand! Aloud, he said, "You can pick up the pieces with the first-aid kit."

Thaler's eyes crinkled with amusement. He laughed once, twice, chuckled, roared laughter, and fell to the ground, doubled over, clutching his belly, howling mirth…

… and shot up like a spring, still laughing, his head crashing up under Rod's jaw.

Rod fell back against the ramparts.

Thaler waded in, fists hammering.

Rod swiveled his head around under the man's fists and dived to the side, flipping over onto his back.

Thaler snarled, and came after him.

Rod shoved hard, his whole body lashing out in a kick that should have caught Thaler under the jaw, heel to chin.

But Thaler ducked under the blow, then leaned back, lashing out with the side of his foot at Rod's chin. Rod sidestepped, hooked his heel behind Thaler's calf, jerked, and saw the edge of Thaler's hand swinging straight at the bridge of his nose.

Rod managed to duck enough for the chop to crack across his forehead instead, and went reeling back stunned, not only by the blow, but also by a horrifying realization: Thaler's chop was the first half of a two-blow series that ended in:

Death.

They really didn't like strangers here.

Thaler's hand slammed down again, in a chop that would have crushed Rod's larynx; but he rolled to the side at the last second, and Thaler's hand cracked into the plasticrete. He howled with pain, and Rod rolled up into a crouch, punching at the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. But Thaler saw the blow coming, and rolled back just enough to take most of the impact out of it. What was left was enough to stiffen him with agony for a moment—and the moment was all Rod needed.

He followed the punch with a series of quick blows that Thaler just barely managed to block, retreating as quickly as he could. Rod got just a touch too confident, let his right foot lead just a little too far—and Thaler's knee snaked around Rod's, and a fist the size of a corned-beef brisket slammed into Rod's ear.

The sky reeled, and the plasticrete struck under him, hard; but he tucked his chin in, and his head didn't hit too hard.

As the world circled past, he noticed the sole of Thaler's boot coming down. He grabbed the foot, twisted, and threw. Thaler hopped back, howling and flailing for balance.

Rod gathered himself into a ball, rolled to his feet, and saw the same damn foot coming at his face again.

Now, Thaler didn't look as though he were apt to win any IQ prizes, but he did look very experienced—so he couldn't be dumb enough to try the same trick a second time, when it hadn't worked once already. So Rod caught at the foot, but stayed alert for a trick—and sure enough, there came the fist, swinging down at the back of Rod's neck.

Rod let go of the foot, took a half step forward, and straightened up hard, both fists over his head.

They caught Thaler right under the jaw.

Thaler swayed, glassy-eyed.

Rod stepped back and swung a haymaker uppercut.

Thaler's head snapped back, and his feet snapped up, and his whole body slammed down flat on the plasticrete.

Rod stood, panting, a little wild-eyed, looking around him, woozy, head splitting with pain, but alert for anyone else to start swinging.

But they stayed where they sat, glowering up at Gwen, and nursing their jaws.

Rod looked up at her, incredulous.

Gwen glared about her in indignation. They have no sense of honor, my lord! They would seek to molest me whiles thou didst defend me!

In spite of his aches, Rod couldn't help grinning. He pitied any man who had tried to lay a hand on his sweet wife. "What did you do to them?"

"Only a slap for each, my lord."

A slap with its force multiplied by telekinesis, Rod guessed. He was surprised none of the men were heading for the hospital.

"Most excellently done," said a cool, amused voice.

Rod looked up, startled.

A tall, slender young man leaned against the outer wall. His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a cap with a polished black visor. His sleeves were bare of insignia, but his shoulder boards were decorated with tiny brass razors.

Obviously an officer.

He turned his head, inclining it toward the slob. "Sergeant."

"Sir." Incredibly, the slob came to attention.

"You are out of uniform, and what you do have is more fatigued than fatigues. And your personal grooming doesn't exist."

"Yes, sir." Then, defiantly, "At least I'm here."

"Indeed you are—so you've only a dozen demerits, not fifty."

The slob winced. "Sir! That's me whole next paycheck!"

"Are you paid so little? My, my. But courage, old chap— a little extra spit and polish can win it back for you, over the next few months." He turned away, and stepped up to nudge Thaler with a boot-toe and a smile. "Poor chap. But what can you expect, really?"

At last, the officer turned to Rod. "You're really quite skilled, you know."

Rod shrugged. "Just a little special training. Your, ah, discipline, is rather, shall we say, remarkable."

The officer shrugged. "It's actually not bad at all, when you consider that our Wolmar was a prison planet, up 'til nine years ago. Nearly everyone here is a convict of one sort or another."

Rod stood stiff with shock, partly at discovering all these soldiers were criminals, and partly from the name of the planet. He didn't know that much about it, but he remembered it from his history books. After all, he was an agent for the Society for the Conversion of Extra-Terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, and before they'd sent him out searching for Terran-colonized planets whose governments were shaping up to become totalitarian, they'd told him a little about all the colonies that had been out of touch while PEST ruled the Terran Sphere. Wolmar had been one of them— one of the furthest from Terra. And it had stayed a prison until PEST cut it off from contact, and supply.

Which meant they were in their own universe, after all, but five hundred years before either of them had been born.

Gwen had been listening to his thoughts, of course. She stepped closer to him, clinging to his arm. He was glad; he needed the contact. Suddenly, their cozy little cottage seemed much, much farther away, and the wind of loneliness blew about their souls.

Thaler rolled over with a groan, opening his eyes to a painful squint. The officer looked down at him, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. "Intolerable, sergeant! Two unarmed civilians, seeking our protection—and what do their rescuers do? Attack them!"

Thaler sat up with a groan. "He wasn't unarmed, Lieutenant."

The lieutenant glanced at Rod's sword and rolled his eyes up. "That oversized toothpick? Don't be ridiculous, man! Report to your quarters until your hearing!"

Thaler blanched, but he managed to keep looking belligerent as he struggled to his feet and turned to go. As he passed by, he gave Rod a quick glare of hatred. Rod watched his retreating back, deciding that he always wanted to know when Thaler was around.

He turned back to the lieutenant, relaxing a little. Thaler's resentment was what he'd have expected from any sergeant talking to a fuzz-cheeked lieutenant—but this lieutenant wasn't extremely young anymore, and he bore himself with the self-confidence that can only come with experience. There was something about him, the way he held himself, that said he didn't need to rely on military rank to enforce his orders.

"My apologies, Sir and Madam." He bowed courteously to Rod, and a bit more courteously to Gwen. "I beg you to pardon that outburst. Please be assured of your welcome, regardless of what you have witnessed here."

"Why, thank you." Rod inclined his head in return, wondering why the lieutenant hadn't stopped the fight. Maybe because it didn't look as though anyone was apt to be killed.

"Thou art most considerate." Gwen dropped a small curtsy.

The lieutenant's eye held a gleam, but he buried it quickly. Rod gave him points for self-discipline—and wondered if it was really from self. "May I have your names, sir and madam?"

"Rodney Gallowglass." He was tempted to use his real name, "d'Armand," but decided against it. He caught Gwen's hand. "And this is my wife, Gwendylon."

Gwen looked up at him in surprise, and he heard her unspoken thought: Wherefore didst thou not use thy title?

Other countries, other customs, he answered silently. People like this are as likely to resent a lord as to honor him.

"Lieutenant Corrigan, at your service." The young officer clicked his heels and bobbed his head. "Now, Citizen Gallowglass, I would appreciate your explaining to me the presence of our honored antagonists." He nodded toward the outside of the main gate. Rod looked down, and saw a crowd of Wolmen, chanting the same word over and over again. With a shock, Rod realized it was, "Justice! Justice! Justice! Justice!"

"Not that they're unwelcome, you understand," Stuart explained, "but I would like to know the issue I'm going to be discussing."

"I'm afraid I don't really know," Rod confessed. "We were just standing there in the middle of the plain, minding our own business, when they came up over the ridge and started chasing us."

"Ah." The Lieutenant nodded. "A simple question of remuneration, no doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll go discuss the issue with them." He bowed slightly with a click of the heels, and turned away.

Gwen's voice sounded in Rod's mind: Is he noble, then?

No, Rod answered. I don't think anyone here is. But someone has to do the jobs that the lords would do, if they were here—and he's been given that kind of authority. About as much as a knight.

By what right did he claim it?

Training, Rod answered, knowledge and intelligence. Sometimes even experience.

The great gates swung open, and the young officer stepped out to confront the wild savages.

He crossed both arms, fingertips touching his shoulders, and bowed slightly. One of the yellow-green men stepped forward, and returned the gesture.

"I think it's a salute," Rod muttered.

The lieutenant's words carried clearly. "I greet you, Scouting-Master."

The Scouting-Master returned the salute. "Have-um sun-filled day, Lieutenant."

"The sentiments are appreciated." The lieutenant's voice switched into crispness. "But though I am honored by your presence, I also wonder at it. For how long have noble warriors been attacking civilians?"

"Them not so civil. Them flew!"

"As I would, if I saw your valiant warriors pursuing me. Why did they?"

The Scouting-Master grinned, and his warriors chuckled. "Not for real. Just good fun."

"Fun!" Gwen gasped.

"Well, be fair." Rod shrugged. "It was, kinda, wasn't it?"

"Indeed?" The lieutenant's voice had become distinctly chilly.

The Scouting-Master's grin widened. "We could see-um was couple greenhorns. Why not have good time with-um?"

The lieutenant gave a wintry smile. "No harm intended, eh?"

"None." The Scouting-Master frowned. "But them have no business outside Wall! Them not traders!"

"A point well-taken, I must admit. Still, I cannot help but think your mode of contact was something less than honorable."

The natives scowled, muttering to one another, but the Scouting-Master only shrugged. "Could've done much worse, within-um rights. Could Shacklar gainsay?"

The lieutenant was silent a moment, then heaved a sigh. "The General-Governor would say that no lasting harm was done, so no hard feelings should last."

Rod frowned. 'General-Governor?' Didn't they have that the wrong way around?

"Even so." The Scouting-Master's forefinger stabbed upward, and his smile vanished. "Agreements hold. Me file-um complaint—formal! For trespassing!"

The lieutenant stood still for a moment, then sighed, pulled out a pad and began writing. "If you must. However, these two are civilians. That will necessitate a meeting with the General-Governor."

"Sound great." The Scouting-Master grinned. "Him always serve good coffee." He turned to his warriors, making shooing motions. "Go patrol again!"

"Boring," one of the warriors grumbled.

"Want-um soldiers stamp-um all over planet?" the Scouting-Master snapped. "Besides—good for-um! Build-um character!"

The warrior sighed, and the troops turned away. The Scouting-Master turned back, a grin spreading over his face again. "We go see Shacklar now, hm?"

The lieutenant ushered them into a thirty-by-thirty office with large windows (outside, Rod had noticed steel shutters), a desk at one end, and several padded armchairs at the other. All the furniture had a rough-and-ready look about it, as though it had been built out of local materials by an amateur carpenter. But it was made out of real wood. Rod thought that implied status, until he remembered that wood was cheaper than plastic on a frontier world. The floor was polished wood, too, most of it covered by a plaid carpet, woven of orange, purple, chartreuse, and magenta fibers. Rod winced.

The man who sat behind the desk seemed out of place. He was in full uniform, bent over paperwork, but was surprisingly young to be top kick; he couldn't have been much more than forty. He was lean, lanky, brown-haired, and the face that looked up at them as they came in was mild and quizzical, with a gentle smile. There was some indefinable air of sophistication about him, though, that made him seem incongruous with his rough surroundings.

He is a lord, Gwen thought.

She just might be right, Rod realized. Maybe a younger son of a younger son?

"General Shacklar," the lieutenant informed them, "the Governor."

Well. That explained the inverted title.

The General rose with a smile of welcome, and came around his desk toward them. The lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted. The General returned his salute and stopped in front of the native, crossing his arms and bowing. "May your day be sun-filled, Scouting-Master."

"And yours," the native grinned. "Coffee?"

"Of course! Lieutenant, will you serve, please?" But, as the young officer turned away, the General stopped him with an upheld palm. "A moment—introductions?"

"Certainly, sir." The lieutenant turned back to them. "Master Rod Gallowglass and his lady, Gwendylon."

"Charmed." The General took Gwen's hand and bowed. She smiled, pleased.

The lieutenant stepped away toward the coffeepot.

"I don't remember your arrival." The General gave Rod a keen glance.

Rod had a notion this man knew every single person who arrived on his planet—especially if he was, well, basically, warden. Of a planet-wide prison. And Rod and Gwen weren't exactly inconspicuous. "We were, uh, stranded, General. Landed out in the middle of the plains. No way to get back home."

Shacklar frowned. "I don't recall any report of a distress signal."

"We couldn't transmit." So far, Rod hadn't really told any lies. He hoped it would last.

It did. Shacklar gave him the keen glance again; he was definitely aware of the holes in the explanation; but he wasn't about to push them. "My sympathies. Just this morning, was it?"

"Soon after dawn," Gwen explained. "We had scarcely collected ourselves when these…"

She hesitated, and Shacklar supplied, "Wolmen. That's what they call themselves. Their ancestors were counterculture romantics, who fled Terra to live the life of the Noble Savage. They invented their own version of aboriginal culture, based largely on novels and screenplays."

Well. That explained some of the more bizarre aspects.

"I take it they discovered you almost immediately, and began to chase you?"

"Aye. We did fly from them."

Rod stiffened. Did she have to be so literal?

Yes, she did, now that he thought of it. When the Wolman talked about them flying, now, Schacklar would assume he was speaking metaphorically. Very clever, his lady. He glowed with pride.

Fortunately, the General didn't notice. He shook his head sadly. "Most unfortunate! My deepest regrets. But really, you see, by the terms of our agreement with the Wolmen, no colonist is supposed to be outside the Wall unless he's on official or commercial business, so you can understand why they would react in so precipitous a manner. And, truly, they did no harm—only enforced their rights under our treaty."

"Aye, that is easily understood." Gwen shrugged. "I cannot truly blame them."

"Most excellent." Shacklar beamed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must hear what the Scouting-Master wishes to say."

He turned away. Gwen turned to Rod, speaking softly. "Doth he say that these people but play at being savages, my lord?"

"No—but their ancestors did, so now they're stuck with it. But I get the feeling there was a real war when the Terran government decided to use this planet for a prison. Apparently they didn't consult the Wolmen first—and they resented it. Forcibly." He shrugged. "Can you blame them?"

The General had turned now, facing them again. "The Scouting-Master understands your predicament, but nonetheless charges you with trespassing." He sighed. "Actually, he's shown a considerable amount of forbearance in this matter. He could have taken any number of more or less lethal measures against you, rather than merely herding you to the Wall, as he did."

Herding?

Gwen, did you know we were being herded?

Nay—yet now, I can see it clearly enough.

The General frowned, concerned. "What's the matter, old man? Hadn't you guessed you were being driven?"

"As a matter of fact, I hadn't." Rod found himself smiling back in spite of himself. "Uh, ah—General, please convey my apologies and great thanks to the Scouting-Master."

"Oh, you may convey them yourself, in just a moment! But, ah—" Shacklar looked down at the carpet, rubbing the tip of his nose with a forefinger. "I wouldn't truly recommend it. A simple apology and expression of thanks—no, the Scouting-Master would take it as a sign of weakness."

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "I see. Exactly what form should the apology take?"

"Precisely, Master Gallowglass." The General smiled warmly. "It's always a pleasure to deal with a man who understands the true nature of diplomacy!"

"Does he want his diplomacy in gold, or Terran bills?"

"Gold would be pleasant, but I'm sure I.D.E. kwaher bills will suffice." The General smiled sadly. "However, I'm afraid P.E.S.T. bills would not be acceptable; the Wolmen don't have much faith in them."

"I understand." Rod smiled. "Primitive cultures tend to be conservative."

"Indeed." The keen glance again. "Well! In this case, the apology should consist of, ah…" Shacklar slipped a small leather-bound pad out of his pocket and flipped it open. "… five hundred kwahers."

Rod stared. "Five… hundred…"

Is the amount so great, my lord?

Not unless you don't have it. How are you at turning lead into gold, dear?

A sudden, faraway look came into Gwen's eyes.

The General was watching them carefully, but with his gentle smile. "I take it you find yourselves temporarily embarrassed?" The General smiled. "We can certainly arrange a temporary, interest-free loan, Master Gallowglass. There is a Bank of Wolmar, and it's solvent at the moment."

"Oh, no! Money's never a problem with us. Uh—is it, Gwen?" Rod reached into the purse that hung at his belt. It held only a few Gramarye coins. The silver in them would be perfectly negotiable, but it might be a little difficult to explain Tuan's and Catharine's portraits.

"Nay, money was never our care," Gwen agreed, giving him a sidelong glance. "Indeed, it hath been so long since I have seen it, that I quite forget the look of it!"

Rod froze.

He swallowed, hugely. Of course, Gwen couldn't know what I.D.E. bills looked like; she had never seen any money but Gramarye's.

Come to think of it, Rod didn't know what they looked like, either. The I.D.E. government had fallen five hundred years before he was born. "On second thought, General, I think I will take you up on that offer. Could you let me have, say, a twenty-kwaher bill for, oh, about two minutes?"

The General frowned, but reached for his wallet. "At least the interest won't be prohibitive." He passed Rod the bill.

"Thanks very." Rod handed it to Gwen. "Yes, money. That's money, dear."

Gwen stared, thunderstruck. "Paper, my lord? This is money?"

"Uh, yes, dear." Gwen had never seen anything but coins, of course, medieval cultures having a rather elemental view of economics. "That's money. Here, anyway." Rod forced a grin. "Uh, sorry, General. We're not used to, ah, using cash, you know how it is."

"Credit cards." The General nodded with understanding. Rod would've hated to shatter his illusions.

"Now, I just had some, right here." Rod fumbled in the purse again; it was still mostly empty.

"My lord," Gwen murmured, "I cannot…"

"That's okay, dear, just try." Rod patted her hand. "Never know just how much you can do, until you give it a try… I know… I had…" Rod dug in the purse as though it were a ten-mile pit, a bead of cold sweat trickling down his brow.

Something rustled.

His fingers touched paper. Lots of paper.

He drew it out slowly, with a grin of relief. "There we are, General, twenty-five twenty-kwaher bills." He plucked the original from Gwen's numbed fingers. "Oh, and the one you loaned us, of course."

The General's eyes widened slightly, but he accepted the cash without comment.

"I don't like to carry large denominations," Rod explained.

"But I thought you said…" Shacklar clamped his lips shut. "No, really. Not my affair at all…" He gave Rod the keen glance again. "Don't you find it troublesome to carry so many bills about?"

"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but there wasn't time to have them changed."

The General squared the bills into a neat stack. "I take it you left home in a bit of a hurry."

"You might say that, yes."

The General turned to step over to the lieutenant and the Scouting-Master, who broke out in an ear-to-ear grin and hurried over to seize Rod's hand, pumping it. "Glad you one of the good guys!"

"Oh, my pleasure," Rod murmured. "Thanks for understanding."

"Sure, sure! Come outside Wall again, anytime!" The Scouting-Master crossed his arms and bowed, then turned away to the door the lieutenant was holding, licking his thumb and counting the bills. "Nice chasing you!"

"Anytime." Rod waved, feeling slightly numb.

The lieutenant closed the door behind him with relief.

Rod turned back to the General, shaking his head. "Funny how underdeveloped societies always learn the same aspect of our culture first, isn't it?"

"Quite." The General turned away, going back to his desk. "Well! At least that's done!"

"Yeah. Nice to have it over with, isn't it?" Rod grabbed Gwen's arm and made for the door. "Thanks for straightening things out for us, General. If there's anything we can ever do for you…"

"As a matter of fact," Shacklar murmured, "you could answer a few questions…"

Rod's body jerked as his feet stopped and his shoulders tried to keep going. He glared at Gwen.

"We must observe the rules of courtesy, my lord."

"Next time just stop me with a word, okay?" Rod turned back. "Why, sure, General. What kind of questions did you have in mind?"

The General's mouth was pinched at the corners with hidden amusement.

Rod frowned, noticing something he'd missed before. He stepped up to the General's desk, peering at Shacklar's corps insignia. It was the staff of Aesculapius. "You're a doctor!"

"Psychiatrist, actually." The General smiled. "Surely that is an appropriate profession for the chief administrative officer of a former correctional colony?"

"Uh… yeah, I guess it is." Rod frowned. "I just wasn't expecting anything so logical."

"I'm not certain it was, in its genesis." Shacklar's smile hardened. "But I do think it's worked out for the best. I've quite a sense of purpose here."

"Yeah, I can see that you would have." Rod straightened, clearing his throat. "Well! About those questions, General…"

"Yes, indeed. Would you mind telling me how you came to be shipwrecked on Wolmar?"

"No, not at all." If I can think of it.

Shacklar looked up over steepled fingers. "Touch of amnesia?"

"Oh, no, no," Rod said quickly. "Not amnesia, really; it's just that, uh…" He took a deep breath and began improvising at top speed. "Uh, I know this is going to sound strange, but, uh… we were on our way to a costume ball, aboard a passenger liner from, uh…" He tried to remember a ship that had disappeared without a trace, about the end of the I.D.E. era. He could only think of the most famous one, and cursed mentally, then followed it with a quick thought-apology to Gwen. "We were on the, uh, Alfreda, outbound from Fido—you know, Beta Canis Minor's fourth planet—on our way to Tuonela, the fifth planet of 61 Cygni…"

"But you never attained your destination?"

Rod nodded. After all, the Alfreda had left Fido with a remarkable number of famous people aboard, but had never been heard from again. That gave Rod scope for considerable poetic license. "We felt this huge lurch—horrible, I wound up with caviar all over my doublet—and the crew started hollering for all of us to get into suspended-animation pods, and aimed us at random, hoping we'd strike Terran-colonized planets sooner or later."

"Which, fortunately, you did." Shacklar pulled out a pipe and clasped it high on the stem, hiding his mouth; but the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"So here we are," Rod finished. "Our pod landed out in the Wolmen's territory, and… uh… you… don't… believe me…"

"No, I didn't say that at all." The General leaned forward to prop his elbows on his desk.

"But it's the best entertainment you've had all week?"

"All year, in fact." Shacklar smiled warmly. "They don't have tales like that on the 3DT any more."

"Well, if you doubt my word, you can check the records. The Alfreda did disappear en route from Beta Canis Minor to 61 Cygni…"

"Yes, I remember the incident well; there were so many politicians aboard that it was quite a scandal." Shacklar gave him an amiable smile. "That much, at least, is quite true, I'm certain. As to the rest of it, though… Ah, well, I'm not one to press, Master Gallowglass. We rather make a policy of not being too insistent about a man's past, on Wolmar. However, I do appreciate the finer aspects of narrative creativity. I was especially impressed with the piece about the costume ball."

"Oh, yes! She's supposed to be Nell Gwynn, and I'm, uh—Cyrano de Bergerac!"

"And I'm the King of England," Shacklar murmured, fighting a smile. "But as I say, a man's past is his own affair, on Wolmar. No one is here without a reason, and it's generally one that he'd rather weren't known." He shrugged. "Of course, in my own instance, I'm not terribly concerned about secrecy. Ultimately, I'm here because, in addition to being a psychiatrist, I'm also a masochist."

Rod stared, then caught himself. "Oh, really?"

"Yes." Shacklar smiled. "Quite well-adjusted—but it does create certain problems within the chain of command. Here, though, my men don't seem to care terribly."

Rod nodded, slowly. "I begin to understand why you don't mind staying."

"There is some feeling of being appreciated." Shacklar smiled brightly. "But the mild exhibitionism involved in telling you that is part of my disorder, you see. I certainly don't ask that of anyone else."

He leaned forward to glance at his desk readout. "However, I'm keeping you overlong; after so great a time in suspended animation, you must be ravenous. You'll find an excellent tavern just down the street."

"Uh… thanks, General." Rod managed a smile. "You've been very helpful."

He turned away to the door, holding it open for Gwen. "If there's anything we can ever do for you, just give us a yell."

"As a matter of fact, there Is one small thing your lady could do for me, Master Gallowglass."

Rod stopped in mid-stride, a sinking feeling in his belly.

He turned around again. Gwen turned with him, wide-eyed. "And how may I aid you, sir?"

"Slap me," said the General.

Rod set down a small tray, and laid a plate of boiled sausage and buns in front of Gwen, with a tankard of ale to flank it. "Not much, my dear, but I'm afraid that's about the best Cholly's Tavern runs to." He sat down and took a sip of his beer. His eyes widened in surprise. "Not bad, though."

She sipped, carefully. "Indeed, 'tis not! Yet wherefore is't so chill, my lord?"

"Huh?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh, uh—they just like it that way, honey. That's all." He leaned back and looked about him, at the unfinished boards and the rough-and-ready chairs and tables. "Sure not what I was planning on when I took you out for an evening alone."

Gwen smiled. "Nay, assuredly 'tis not! Yet—oh, my lord! Tis all so new, and marvelous!"

"It is?"

"Indeed." She leaned over the table. "Yet tell me—what mean all these strange manners and artifacts? Why do all wear leggings, even though they have no armor to cover them? What were those odd, bulbous engines each man did wear at his hip, upon the Wall? And wherefore do they not wear them in this place? How do the lights within this inn come to glow? And where are the kegs from which they draw their ale?"

Rod held up a hand. "Hold it, dear. One at a time." He hadn't realized how strange and new the technological world would seem to Gwen—but she did come from a medieval culture, after all. Secretly, he blessed the fate that had brought them to a frontier planet, instead of one of the overly-civilized, total-technology worlds nearer Terra.

How to explain it all to her? He took a deep breath, wondering where to start. "Let's begin with power."

"There's naught so new in that." She shrugged. "Once thou hadst told me there were no nobles, it was truly clear the peasant folk must needs set up orders within their own ranks, even as those Wolmen, who did chase us this morn, have done. Or the wild folk, who do war upon the cities— even as the Beastmen did to our Isle of Gramarye, ten years agone."

The time-lapse hit Rod like a Shockwave. "My lord! Was it really ten years ago?" He took a shuddering breath. "But of course. We only had one child then, and we have four now—and Magnus is twelve." He studied her face intently. "You don't look any older."

She blushed, lowering her eyes. "'Tis good of thee to say it, my lord—yet I do see the wrinkles, here and there, and the odd strand of gray in mine hair."

"What's odd about it, with our four? But they certainly must be rare; I haven't noticed one yet! And as to wrinkles, I've always had my share of those."

"Yet thou art not a woman," Gwen murmured.

"So sweet of you to notice… But back to the ins and outs of this world we're on. Government wasn't exactly the kind of 'power' I'd had in mind, dear."

"Indeed?" She looked up, surprised. "Yet assuredly thou didst not speak of magicks!"

"No, no. Definitely not. I was talking about force—the kind that makes things move."

Gwen frowned, not understanding.

Rod took a deep breath. "Look. In Gramarye, there are four kinds of power that can do work for us: muscles, our own or our animals'; wind, which pushes ships and turns windmills; water power, which turns mill wheels; and fire, which heats our houses, boils our water, and cooks our food. And that's about all."

Gwen frowned. "But what of the power of a crossbow, that speeds a bolt to slay a man?"

Rod shook his head. "Just muscle power, stored. When a crossbowman pulls a bowstring, see, he's just transferring power from his arm and shoulder into the springy wood of the bow. But the crossbowman takes several minutes to put that power in, by winding the bowstring back. Then, when he pulls the trigger that releases the string, all that energy is released in one quick burst—and that's what throws the arrow so much harder than an ordinary bow can."

Gwen nodded slowly, following every word. "And 'tis thus, too, that a common archer's bow can throw an arrow so much farther than a man-at-arms can hurl a spear?"

"Why, yes." Rod sat up straighter, surprised at how quickly she had understood. "Of course, the arrow's lighter than the spear, too. That helps."

Gwen frowned. "And 'tis also that the ends of the bow are longer than the spearman's arms, is't not? For I do note that the longer the bow, the farther it doth hurl the arrow."

"Why… yes," Rod said, startled. "The longer the lever, the more it multiplies the force—and the two ends of a bow, and a spearman's arm, are all levers."

"And the longer bow can therefore be stiffer, but can still be bent?"

"Uh… yeah." Rod felt a faint chill along his back. She was understanding too quickly. "And the crossbow is more powerful, because it's so much stiffer."

"But the man who doth shoot it, can bend it by winding." Gwen nodded, seeming almost angry in the intensity of her concentration.

"Right." Rod swallowed heavily. "Well. Uh… in this world, there're other sources of power—but the most important one is the kind called 'electricity.' It's like…" He groped, trying to find an explanation. "It's invisible, but it flows like water. Only through metals, though. It's…" Then inspiration struck. "It's like the force you wield when you make things move with your mind." He waved a hand. "Even though you can't see it, you can feel it, if you touch the wire it's flowing through. Boy, can you feel it!" He frowned. "Though I shouldn't say you can't see it, really. Have you ever looked at a lightning bolt, darling? No, of course you have! What's the matter with me?" He could remember one occasion especially vividly—they had huddled inside a cave, watching the lightning slam the thunder about the skies. And when the storm's fury had thoroughly dazzled them… He cleared his throat. "Lightning's electricity—one kind of electricity, anyway."

"Thou dost not say it," she breathed, wide-eyed. "Have these people chained the lightning, then?"

Rod nodded, thrilled (and chilled) by her quickness. "They've figured out how to make it do all sorts of tricks, darling."

Her eyes were huge. "This glow, then, is lightning leashed?"

"That's one way to look at it." Rod nodded slowly. "But they use it for other things, too. Those bulbous things on their hips—they call them 'blasters,' and they use electricity to tickle a ruby into making a sword of light."

Gwen stared, aghast. Rod nodded again. "And there are other things they can make it do—lots of other things. Think of any job, darling, and the odds are these folk have figured out a way to make electricity do it."

"Caring for others," said the mother, immediately.

Rod sat still for a moment, just staring at her.

Then he smiled, and reached out to take her hand. "Of course. I should have known you'd think of the one thing they can't do. Oh, don't get me wrong—they do have machines that can take care of people's bodies—all their physical needs. Electricity runs machines that can wash clothes, cook food, clean houses. But to give the feeling that somebody cares about you, that another human being is taking care of you?" He shook his head. "No. They might be able to come up with a convincing illusion—but deep inside, everyone knows it's not real. Only people can really care for people. They haven't invented a substitute yet."

She gazed into his eyes for a long moment—and hers were filled with excitement, but warmed with her prime preoccupation—him.

Maybe that was why her eyes were so mesmerizing. They seemed to fill Rod's whole field of view, inviting, craving… "I remember the story about the monkey and the python," he said softly.

"In truth?" she murmured.

"Yeah. I just can't figure out which one I am…"

A shaggy figure moved into his range of vision, far away. Rod stared, stiffening. "Who's that, who just came in the door?"

Gwen heaved a martyred sigh and turned to look. "The soldier with the thatch of brown hair?" Her eyes widened. "My lord! It cannot be!"

"Why not? We know he's a time traveller—and don't tell me there ain't no such thing, when I am one!"

"I would not have dreamed of it. But how doth he come to be here?"

Rod shrugged. "As good a place as any, I expect. After all, he resigned as Viceroy of Beastland two years ago."

"Aye, though Tuan cried he still had need of him."

"Yeah, that was really fun news for the Viceroy-elect. Too bad it didn't reach his ears."

"How could it?" Gwen asked. "He had quite simply disappeared."

The goblin face was scanning the room slowly, a massive frown of its beetling brows. It saw Rod and broke into a grin. Then its owner was hurrying across the room, hand outstretched. "Milord!"

Half the room turned to look, and Rod thought fast to cover. He plastered on a grin of his own and rose to the occasion to grasp the proffered hand. "My lord, Yorick!" he echoed. "It's good to see you!"

The rest of the patrons turned back to their beers with disgruntled mutters—no nobility, just profanity.

Rod slapped Yorick's shoulder and nodded toward a chair. "Sit down! Have a beer! Tell us what you're doing here!"

"Why, thank you! Don't mind if I do." The caveman pulled up a chair. "I'll bet you're surprised to see me here."

Rod sat down slowly to give himself a chance to recover. Then he smiled. "Well, yes, now that you mention it. I mean, this is a good five hundred years before you disappeared." He frowned at a sudden thought. "On the other hand, it's about forty thousand years since your whole species died off."

Yorick nodded. "So why not here, as well as there?"

"Aye, wherefore?" Gwen cocked her head to the side. "How does it come that thou'rt in this place?"

"With difficulty," Yorick answered, "quite a bit of it. I mean, when you didn't come back that night, your kids got worried—but Puck managed to get 'em all to bed and to sleep, anyway. When you hadn't shown up by mid-morning, though, even he got worried—so he told his boss."

Inwardly, Rod quailed. Brom O'Berin, in addition to being King of the Elves, was also Gwen's father—though nobody knew about it except himself and Rod. If Brom had found out his daughter was missing, it was amazing that he didn't have the whole elfin army in this tavern, instead of one addlepated Neanderthal.

Gwen smiled. "And Brom did order the hue and cry?"

Yorick nodded. "Sent out a scout party of elves. With a hundred or so of the little blighters going at it, they picked up your trail in no time. They tracked you to a little pond, where they found some pretty clear signs of a fight that seemed to end with a couple of bodies being dragged someplace, and just disappearing."

Rod smiled, with sour satisfaction. "Nice to know the Futurian boys hadn't had sense enough to erase their tracks. Overconfidence works wonders."

"No, they did erase 'em." Yorick turned toward Rod. "Straightened up the grass, and everything. Can you blame 'em if they didn't stop to think how good elves are at tracking?"

"Quite unfair," Gwen agreed.

Yorick nodded. "I swear a fly couldn't land on a blade of grass without them being able to tell it."

Rod remembered how insistent Puck was about sipping only from the flowers where the wild bee sucked—after the bee had left, of course. "That's fantastic. But how'd they figure out where we'd disappeared to?"

"The tracks just looked too much like the ones you left the last time you vanished into thin air."

Rod nodded, remembering their involuntary trip to Tir Chlis. "I always keep underestimating Brom. What'd he do about it?"

"Same thing as last time—called me."

Rod frowned. "But you had disappeared, too."

Yorick shrugged. "So he told Korig. You remember him, the big guy with the heavy jaw?"

"Your deputy." Rod nodded. "He knew how to get a hold of you?"

"Oh, you just bet he did! Didn't think I'd leave the poor guy completely on his own, did you? I mean, what would happen if SPITE or VETO tried to make trouble in the Neanderthal colony again?"

"The Futurian time-travel departments." Rod nodded, and made a mental note that there was still a time machine in Beastland. One belonging to GRIPE, the democrats' time-travel company—but a time machine nonetheless. Might come in handy, some time. "So Korig called you?"

Yorick nodded. "And I called Doc Angus. Actually, Doc got the message first; I wasn't in at the time. A little problem with King Louis the Bald trying to become a despot."

"What'd you do about it?… NO! Strike that! Let's stay with the business at hand."

Yorick shrugged. "Any way you want. So Doc Angus did a little research."

Rod remembered his fleeting glimpse of the white-maned, hawk-nosed, deformed little scientist—the head of GRIPE. "What kind of research?"

"He came, he saw—and he figured you'd been conquered. At least long enough to kidnap you. Of course, you could have been dead—but Doc likes to look on the bright side. So he assumed you'd been abducted back into the past."

Rod frowned. "Why not the future? Or an alternate universe?"

"Or even just a matter-transmitter." Yorick shrugged. "All possible, but he checked out the time machine hypothesis first, since that was the easiest for him."

Rod shook his head slowly, staring. "He had eight thousand years of human history to cover, not to mention a good hundred thousand of pre-history—and, for all he knew, a billion years or so before that! How'd he do it?"

Yorick shrugged. "Simple. He just told his agents, all up and down the time-line, to be on the lookout for the two of you—and sure enough, we just happen to have an agent here on Wolmar, and he'd noticed that a pack of Wolmen had chased in a couple of greenhorns in Tudor costumes. So he called for help right away—and as soon as I was done with that French job, Doc sent me to this time-locus. So here I am."

"Whoa." Rod held up a hand. "One problem at a time here. First—here? Wolmar? This insignificant little planet, out in the Marches? Why would Dr. McAran go to the trouble of putting an agent here?"

"Because it's pivotal to the rebirth of democracy," Yorick explained. "General Shacklar knows that the only way for anybody to survive on this planet is to get the Wolmen and the colonists working together."

"I'd begun to get an inkling of that." Rod nodded. "Getting two groups of people who're so different to live peacefully—that's an amazing accomplishment."

"Especially considering that they were at each other's throats only about ten years ago."

Rod and Gwen both stared.

Yorick nodded. "Oh yes, milord. It was all-out war, and very bloody, too. It went on for a dozen years before Shacklar came, without the slightest trace of mercy on either side."

"How'd he manage to stop it?"

"Well, he had an advantage." Yorick shrugged. "Both sides were heartily sick of it. All he had to do was find them a good excuse, and they were both ready to stop shooting. Of course, he didn't try to get them to lay down their weapons—that would've been asking too much."

Gwen frowned. "Then this war could begin anew, at a moment's notice."

Yorick nodded. "All that prevents it is the system Shack-lar's worked out for resolving disputes."

"Yeah—we kind of had a taste of that earlier today." Rod exchanged glances with Gwen. "It does seem kind of fragile, though."

"Definitely. Shacklar still has a long way to go before both sides are safe from each other. He's got to weld them together into a single political entity, fully equal, and respecting each other."

"Doth he mean that Wolmen and soldiers both, must have common courts of justice?"

"Well, having them join together in a single judiciary would certainly help." Rod pursed his lips. "But he'd also need some way of making them join in a single legislative body."

Gwen frowned. "What mean these words, milord?"

"That's right, you're a loyal subject of Their Majesties… Well, dear, it's possible for people to make their own laws."

"Thou dost not say it!"

"Oh, but I do. Of course, you have to be sure ahead of time that everybody will agree to those laws, or they'll be awfully hard to enforce."

'"No prince may govern without the consent of the governed,'" Yorick quoted.

Rod threw him a glance of irritation. "Thank you, Nick Machiavelli."

"He wasn't so bad a guy. Just trying to be realistic, that's all."

"Oh? When was the last time you talked to him?"

Yorick opened his mouth to answer.

"NO! I don't want to know!" Rod held up a palm. "Well, dear, the best way to make sure the people won't object to any new laws is to have them choose their own lawmakers."

Gwen just stared at him.

"It's possible," Yorick murmured. "I know it sounds farfetched, but it's possible."

Gwen turned to him. "Didst thou, then, have to become thus accustomed to such strangeness?"

"Who, me?" The Neanderthal spread his hands. "My people didn't even have laws. Everybody just sort of agreed on everything…"

"So, then." Gwen turned back to Rod. "This planet hath no king."

Rod shook his head. "Just General Shacklar, on the colonists' side. I assume the Wolmen have some kind of a leader, too—but I don't think they've decided to get royal about it yet."

"Yet they do govern themselves?"

"Well, that's what Shacklar's working on. But it's been done in other places—quite a few of them. Basically, they choose their own king—but all he gets to do is carry out the lawmakers' decisions. He doesn't even get to judge people charged of crimes, or resolve disputes. There's a system of courts and judges for that."

"So, then." Gwen gazed off into space, and Rod could hear her thoughts—a train of logic tripping over bit by bit in a long chain. "Before it could lead to revolution," she said gently.

"Yes, dear. That's what I'm trying to bring about on Gramarye."

She stared, and he saw understanding come into her eyes. "Thou dost take long enow in the doing of it!"

"Have to." Rod shook his head. "There's no shortcut. It has to develop out of the people themselves, or it won't last. There're a thousand different ways of doing it, one for each society that has developed self-government—because it has to grow, like a tree. It can't be grafted onto a people."

"The grafts never take," Yorick murmured.

"Or they take graft, but that happens in every system when it starts to die. In fact, that's part of what kills it."

"But we're in at the beginning." Yorick grinned. "It can't be corrupted yet, because it hasn't quite begun."

"Amazing how much Shacklar has done, though." Rod turned to the Neanderthal. "How's he going to wield them into one complete political unit?"

"How'd he do this much?" Yorick shrugged. "Sorry, Major—I didn't have time for a full briefing; I had to just grab what few facts I could, before I jumped into the time machine. But he will manage it, say our boys from up the time-line, if we can fight off the SPITE and VETO agents who're trying to do him in, and his system with him."

Rod stared. The Society for the Prevention of Integration of Telepathic Entities was the Anarchists' time-travel department, as the Vigilant Exterminators of Telepathic Organisms was the Totalitarians'. The two of them were the banes of his existence on Gramarye. "They're after him, too?"

"Sure. Your world isn't the only one that's crucial to the future of democracy, milord."

"But why is Wolmar so important?"

"Mostly because it's one of the few pockets of democracy that's going to keep going all through the PEST centuries; at least it'll keep the idea alive. But also because it's going to be the headquarters for the educational effort."

Rod stared. Then he closed his eyes, gave his head a quick shake, and looked again.

Yorick nodded. "That's why we have to have an agent stationed here—to make sure the SPITE and VETO boys don't get to sabotage Shacklar's system."

"You bet you have to!"

"Yet an there be one of thy folk here," said Gwen, "wherefore can he not care for us?"

"Who said it was a he?"

"Why…" Gwen looked at Rod. "I would ha' thought…"

Yorick shook his head. "All we ask is that an agent be capable."

"Then thine agent here is female?"

"Now, I didn't say that." Yorick held up a palm. "And I'm not about to, either. The whole point is that our agent has managed to establish a very good cover, and we don't want to blow it. Stop and think about it—can you figure out who it is?"

Rod stared at the ape-man for a moment, then shook his head. "You're right—I can't."

Gwen turned to gaze about them, her eyes losing focus.

"Uh-uh, milady!" Yorick wagged a forefinger at her. "No fair reading minds. It's better for us all if you don't know who it is! After all, what you don't know, you can't let slip."

"So they sent in a special agent," Rod said, "you. After all, if your cover's blown, it won't be any major tragedy."

"I wasn't planning to use it again, anyway." Yorick nodded.

"Thus thou'rt come in aiding us to return to our home!"

Yorick kept nodding. "Going to try, anyway. I've got a time-beacon with me. All I have to do is push the button, and it'll send a teeny ripple going through the time-stream. When that ripple hits the receiver in Doc Angus' headquarters, he'll know exactly when and where we are, so he'll be able to shoot us all the spare parts for making a time machine. And I'll put them together, press the button— and voila! You'll be home!"

Rod frowned. "But why can't he just press a button and pick us up? I mean, he shot you here without a time machine to receive you, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't work both ways." Yorick shrugged. "Don't ask me why—I'm just the bullet. I don't understand the gun, milord."

"Uh, can the 'milord' business." Rod darted nervous glances around the room. "I don't think they'd understand it here."

"Suits." Yorick shrugged again. "What do you want me to call you?"

"How about, uh—'major?' They'd recognize that, and it's legit; I'm just not in the same army, that's all."

"Any way you want it, Major."

"Thanks." Rod hunched forward, frowning. "Now, about time-travel. Why does it only work one way?"

"I said not to ask me that!" Yorick winced. "What do I know? I'm just a dumb caveman. But I think it's sorta like— well, you can throw a spear, but you can't make it fly back to you. Understand?"

"You can tie a rope to it." Rod remembered reading every other chapter of Moby Dick.

"A rope five hundred years long? Gets a little weak in the middle, Major. And five hundred is a short haul, where I come from."

Rod felt an attack of stubbornness coming on. "It should be possible, though."

"Okay, so maybe it is, but Doc Angus just hasn't figured out how to do it yet. And I get the impression that no one ever will."

"Watch out for the absolutes." Rod raised a cautioning finger. "The boys up the time-line might just not have told you yet."

"Possible," Yorick admitted, "but not probable. We're both fighting the same enemies—and if SPITE saw a chance to get the jump on VETO, you can bet they'd leap at it— especially a jump like that! And if the VETO boys thought they could get an edge on SPITE, they'd grab it, too."

"And they would both rejoice to gain advantage over thy GRIPE," Gwen added.

"Oh, you betcha, lady!" *

"Well, I guess we all have to take McAran's word for it." Rod pushed back his chair and stood up. "Might as well get moving on it, eh? It's going to be kind of hard, trying to find a place in this colony where we can be alone for a couple of hours."

"Well, more like sixteen, really." Yorick stood up, too. "It takes a little time, getting the components through. Not to mention putting them together." He turned to Gwen. "If you'll excuse us, milady…"

"Nay, I will not." Gwen was already coming around the table. "Whither mine husband goeth, I go."

"Oh. Don't think I can take care of myself yet, eh?" Rod grinned. "Or don't you trust me out of your sight?"

"Somewhat of both, mayhap." Gwen tucked her arm through his. "Yet whate'er the cause, thou shalt not leave me. Lead on. Master Yorick."

"Any way you want it, milady." The ape-man laid some IDE bills on the table and turned to the door.

Rod eyed the money with appreciation. "You do come prepared, don't you?"

"Huh?" Yorick turned back and saw where Rod was looking. "Oh! Just the basic survival kit, Major. We have one ready for every time and clime."

Rod turned away to the door with him. "Y' know, it's kind of funny that this outlying planet would still use IDE paper money, even after the government that printed it has died."

"Why? It's not really paper, y' know, it's a very tough plastic. It'll last forever—or a couple of centuries, at least."

"Well, yeah, but it doesn't have any value in itself. It's only as good as the government that printed it."

"Yeah, but it still works just fine, if everybody believes in it—and they do. Helps that it's based on energy—their basic monetary unit was the BTU. So many BTUs equal a kwaher—a kilowatt-hour—and so many kwahers equal a therm. So the money supply only gets increased when there's more energy available within the interplanetary system as a whole."

"Yeah, if the government doesn't rev up the printers!"

"Ah, but the government doesn't exist anymore." Yorick held up a finger. "It can't inflate the currency now."

"Nice bit of irony." Rod smiled. "The IDE's currency is more sound now that the government that made it has disappeared, than it was while that government was alive and kicking."

"Mostly kicking, at least toward the end. I mean, they were even doing everything they could to bump off Cholly, over there, just because he came up with some wild theories."

"Cholly?" Rod turned to stare at the barkeeper. "Mr. Nice

Guy himself? Why would the IDE want to kill him off?"

"Well, not the IDE, really—just the LORDS, the majority party that engineered the big coup d'etat, and set up the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra."

"Before they even came to power?"

Yorick nodded. "And SPITE and VETO are still trying to finish the job. That's one of our agent's main jobs— protecting Cholly and his establishment."

"What's so important about a tavern?"

"Oh, the tavern's just a front. His real establishment is just an idea and a method, with a set of tried-and-true techniques. People who need a reason for living take his method and go out and do the same kind of work, all on their own." Yorick grinned. "Drives PEST crazy. They keep trying to find out how his organization works—who gives the orders, and how they're transmitted—but there isn't any organization! Just ideas…"

"Sounds fabulous. What's his real work?"

"Mass education—without the masses realizing they're being educated. Cholly is Charles T. Barman, Major."

Rod froze, staring at the cheery tavernkeeper. "That!?! That is the man who created the educational system that gave birth to the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal?"

"Yeah, but he's only just now doing the creating, so the DDT's very vulnerable right at this time-locus, five centuries before it'll be born. If anything happens to Cholly, the DDT "revolution' might never happen. You see why we don't want to compromise our agent here. Don't stare, Major— it makes you conspicuous. Shall we go?"

"Uh—yeah." Rod turned away, feeling numb. "Yeah, sure. Let's go."

"Nar, let's not," rumbled the sergeant.

He wasn't all that big himself, but the troops behind him filled the doorway. Rod stared, shocked—it was the slob from the Wall that morning, Thaler's buddy. But he'd gone through a complete metamorphosis, and maybe even a shower. His uniform was neat and crisp, his cheeks were shaven, and his hair was combed. "Amazing," he murmured.

Behind the bar, Cholly looked up and saw. "Here, now!" he cried, and the whole tavern fell silent. "We'll have no violence in this house!"

"That's up to him," the former slob growled. "Come along to the General nice and peaceablelike, and there won't be no trouble."

Rod frowned. "The General?"

"Aye. You're under arrest."

Rod stood very still. The sergeant grinned.

"Not quite what I had in mind," Yorick muttered.

"Wherefore are we arrested?" Gwen asked.

The sergeant shrugged. "That's for the general to say. Are you coming peaceably, or not?" The glint in his eye said he hoped "not."

Rod sighed and capitulated. "Sure. I always cooperate with the authorities."

"Well, almost always," Yorick muttered.

"Converse with the General was enjoyable," Gwen agreed.

Behind her, most of the soldiers' faces broke into slow, sly grins.

"A woman can't say anything around here without being suspect," Rod sighed. "Of course, they didn't stop to think what kind of a woman would find a masochistic general to be pleasant company."

The grins vanished; the soldiers stared in horror.

Rod nodded, satisfied. "I don't think you'll have any trouble around here, dear. Now we can go."

They might have been the dregs of military society, but they marched very nicely—all the way down the street, into the headquarters building. They came to a halt while the sergeant knocked on Shacklar's door, and the receptionist (human—it was a frontier planet; and male—it was a military prison) officially told him he could enter. Then they marched right into the office, and came to a stamping halt in front of Shacklar's desk.

The General looked up from his paperwork and smiled warmly. "Very good, Sergeant." He saluted. "Dismissed."

The ex-slob stared. "But, General… these people, they're…"

"Very pleasant conversationalists," the General assured him. "I've spoken with them already this morning. I'm sure there won't be any problem—especially with the Chief Chief available." He nodded toward a purple Wolman who stood beside his desk.

The sergeant looked the Wolman up and down, and did not seem assured. "If'n it's all the same to you, sir…"

"But I'm afraid it's not." Shacklar's tone was crisp, but polite. "That will be all, Sergeant. I thank you for your concern."

The sergeant and all his troops eyed the Wolman, Rod, and Yorick warily—and Gwen almost with alarm. But the sergeant barked, "About/ace.' For'ard harch!" dutifully. The squad pivoted with a multiple stamp, and marched out. The sergeant lingered in the doorway for one more glower, but Shacklar met his gaze, and the man turned and disappeared.

On the other hand, he didn't close the door.

Shacklar ignored it. He turned to the Gallowglasses, beaming. "A pleasure to see you again, Master Gallowglass, Mistress Gallowglass." He turned an inquiring glance to Yorick. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure?"

Rod gestured toward the ape-man. "Oh, this is…"

But Yorick cut him off. "AnderThal, General. But I used to be a comic actor with a two-bit rep company, so they call me…"

"… Yorick," Rod finished. He swallowed. "Uh, General—has it occurred to you that you might be in a rather dangerous position?"

"Outnumbered, you mean? And both of you with weapons?" Shacklar nodded. "I'm aware of it, yes."

"It… doesn't bother you."

"Not particularly. I'm trusting to your honor, old boy."

Rod stared. Then he said, just by way of information, "You're a fool, you know."

"I'm aware of that, too." Shacklar smiled up at him.

Yorick locked glances with Rod, and his thoughts were loud. This man is vital to the future of democracy, Major. If you so much as lay a finger on him… At which point the mental signal deteriorated into some rather gruesome graphics.

Not that Rod needed the urging. He gazed at Shacklar's warm, open countenance, and sighed. "I never kill fools before dinnertime; it's bad for the digestion." Ruefully, he was remembering a few occasions when he'd played the same gambit himself; but it had worked, he had gained trust…

… and it was working again, now.

Shacklar wasn't the only fool in the room, he decided.

A faint smile touched the corners of the General's mouth; he relaxed. "I don't believe you've met this gentleman— Chief Hwun, of the Purple tribe—and acclaimed as Chief of all the Wolman tribes."

"No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Rod tried to remember how the salute went—crossed arms, fingers touching the shoulders…

Before he could try it, the big Wolman said, "Them do-um it—this man and woman in-um funny clothes."

Rod stared.

Then he said, "Not much on courtesy, is he?"

"Uh—" Yorick glanced about, then at the General. "I know it's none of my business, but… what does the Chief think M… Mr. Gallowglass did?"

Rod caught the near slip, and gave Yorick points; he'd realized the hazards of having Shacklar think he might be entitled to give Rod orders. "Why, trespassing, of course, on Wolman land." He turned back to Shacklar. "But we cleared that up a couple of hours ago."

"Well, yes—but the Chief's now charging you with an additional transgression."

Rod frowned. "Isn't that 'double jeopardy,' or something?"

"Not at all, since it's a crime you weren't charged with before."

"What crime?"

"Murder."

Rod set a mug of ale down in front of Gwen, then turned back to the bar. "Two of whatever passes for whiskey here. Doubles."

"Done." Cholly thumped two heavy glasses down on the bar, and upended a bottle of vaguely brownish fluid over them. "So he let you loose on your own recognizance?"

"Yeah." Rod shrugged. "We just promised not to kill anybody before dawn tomorrow, and he said, 'Excellent. Why don't you have a look around the town, while you're here?'… That's enough!"

"As you will." Cholly waited a second longer, till the brownish fluid was almost up to the rims, then set the bottle down. "Yer trial's tomorrow at sunrise, then?"

"If you can call it that." Rod frowned. "Isn't that a little lenient, for a couple of suspected murderers?"

Cholly nodded. "Even here. I'd guess the General doesn't think you're guilty."

Rod nodded. "Is he hoping we'll escape, or something?"

"Where to?"

"A good point." Rod pursed his lips. "So we're just supposed to relax and enjoy life, huh?"

"That—or find evidence to clear yourselves. Hard to do that inside a cell, yer know."

Rod frowned. "It is, now that you mention it. We were planning to do something of that sort, anyway."

"Well, then." Cholly beamed. "The General knows his man, don't he? Let me know where I can help."

"Thanks. We will." Rod turned back to the table, set one of the glasses down in front of Yorick, sat himself down across from Gwen, and took a hefty swallow. Then he sat very still for a few minutes, waiting till the top of his head settled back on and the room came back into focus. When it did, he exhaled sharply. "What do they make that out of?"

"Something almost compatible with Terran biochemistry, I'm sure." Yorick looked a little defocused himself.

Rod took a deep breath, then a very cautious sip. He set the glass down gingerly, exhaled carefully, and sat back. "Now!" He looked from Yorick to Gwen and back. "You were both there; you heard everything I did. What was all that about?"

Gwen shrugged. "We chanced to be in a position suspect at a time when a man was slain, my lord."

"Yeah, but I highly doubt we were anywhere near this 'Sun-Greeting Place,' or whatever it is. Also, I don't believe in coincidences, especially not when they're so convenient."

Gwen frowned. "In what way dost thou think them opportune?"

"For our enemies."

"I'll drink to that." Yorick lifted his mug, also his glass.

"You'll drink to anything." But Rod clinked glasses with him, anyway. "Here's to the enemy—may he be confounded."

"Whoever he is." Yorick drank, then set his glass down and leaned forward. "But I'll agree with you, Major, somebody's definitely out to get you."

Rod stared. "When did I say that?"

"On our way from the castle," Gwen explained.

"Oh." Rod frowned. "Yeah, I did say something of the sort then, didn't I?"

"Does he get this way often?"

"Off 'n' on," Rod answered; but Gwen assured Yorick, "Tis only when matters of great moment preoccupy him."

"Oh." Yorick turned back to Rod. "Is that when you get paranoid, too?"

Gwen frowned."What is the meaning of that word?"

"Suspicious," Rod explained. "He means that I feel as though everybody's out to get me."

"Oh!" Gwen turned back to Yorick. "Nay; he is always in that condition."

"But this time, he's right."

They turned in surprise; that voice hadn't been one of theirs.

The newcomer was slender, and wore the same uniform as all the other troopers, but she made it look totally feminine. It couldn't have been deliberate: her blond hair was shorter than most of the men's, cropped close and showing her ears; but there was something in its styling, something about the way she held herself, something in the delicacy of her features that made her very clearly female.

"That's a professional opinion," she added. "They're out to get you."

"Who?" Rod demanded; but Yorick said, softly, "What profession?"

"Secret agent," she snapped, "spy." And to Rod, "You should be able to say better than I can. Who'd rather see you dead than alive? Not that it matters much; on this planet, anybody who's getting hassled is my friend."

Rod just stared at her, but Gwen pushed a chair out. "Sit, an it please thee."

The woman sat, scowling. "You've got a funny way of talking."

Rod said, "I hate to be blunt, but—who are you?"

"I'm Chornoi Shershay—and you'd better hear the whole of it. I was a government spy, up until about five years ago."

"Five years." Rod frowned. "That was just about the time of the PEST coup, if I remember…" He managed to bite off the sentence just before he said, "… my history rightly."

"Yeah." Chornoi nodded. "I was a secret agent for the LORDS party, digging up information for them and helping set up assassinations on some of their more outspoken enemies. I knew I was helping kill people, but I never saw it happen, so it didn't bother me much. I didn't think it would, either." Her face lost expression. "But after the coup, I suddenly found out I was part of the secret police, and the bosses ordered my squad to go hunt down a professor." Her mouth twisted. "He was a gentle old duffer, quiet and humble, and you could see from his house that he and his wife took good care of each other. We yanked him out of bed in the middle of the night, and kicked him out of his house into a darkened floater—and he was terrified, scared stiff but he never blamed us. Not a curse, not a word of anger, just stared at us with those wide, frightened eyes that knew, and understood…" She shuddered. "So they laid into him harder, of course. Even on the way to HQ, they were working him over. It was cruel, vicious beating until he was out cold. I was lucky—I only had to drive. But I still had to hear it…

"Then we landed on top of Base Building, and I had to help carry him inside. His face was so bloody and swollen that I wouldn't have recognized him. We laid him out on the table, ready for the sadists." Her face worked, then was still. "Oh, they try to pretty it up by calling it 'interrogation,' but it's still just plain torture. They clip electrodes on to them, instead of thumbscrews, but agony is agony. I didn't have to stay and watch it, but I felt soiled and debased anyway, as though I'd been turned into something less than human. They told me I could go back to quarters, but I went straight to the Boss, and told him, I quit.

"He sat back in that plastic-walled office behind his stainless steel desk, and just laughed at me. Then he said, 'You can't quit the Secret Security, Shershay. The only way you go out, is feet-first.'

'It's a deal,' I said, and I slammed out of his office. But I headed for the portal as fast as I could walk. I didn't run—that would have been advertising—but I walked very fast. He was as good as his word, though; I saw a gunman running to intercept me as I came in sight of the main portal. I just kept going while he pulled up and aimed at me, then I jerked to the side at the last second.

He wasted time trying to track me with the gun, then he squeezed off a shot, but the bolt didn't come anywhere near me. I lashed out with a kick, and caught him right under the chin with my heel. His head snapped back, and something made a cracking sound, but I landed on the other side of his body, and I landed running. Right out the door."

She paused for breath, trembling, and Yorick said softly, "How far did you get?"

"About a kilometer. Because there was a courier in a floater, just coming in. I kicked him out at gunpoint and took off—but I just went over the parapet, and down into the city, before they could get an intercepter after me. I was in the Old Town—the part where the streets go this way and that—organic, you know? I ducked in there, and was gone."

"You knew better than to stay there, though," Rod said softly.

"Of course." Chornoi shrugged. "Not that it made much difference. They had the cordon out by dawn, and a SecSec force behind me, tracking. I stepped up to a food-counter, to put down a bowl of soy-meal—and when I came out, they jumped me."

"Hard?" Yorick asked.

Chornoi glared at him. "Very."

She turned to Rod. "But I healed. Oh, I was still bleeding here and there when they hauled me up in front of the judge—that was only a couple of hours later. And, of course, SecSec had six witnesses who swore they'd seen me kill that gunman; they'd never been anywhere near him, of course. I think one of them had watched it on a security monitor, though. Which didn't matter, 'cause they played the recording—and the judge said, 'Re-form her.'"

Gwen frowned, not understanding; but Rod paled. "They were going to wipe your brain and install a new personality?"

Chornoi nodded. "And if I didn't live, what difference did it make? But I didn't even get that far. They slammed me into the floater, to go to the re-form center—but we never even lifted. There was a courier there, with a document. Seems the whole time I'd been in front of the judge, SecSec had been going to the Secretary-General, convincing him that secret police were military personnel—so they didn't bother re-forming; they just loaded me into a convict barge, and shipped us all out to Wolmar." Her mouth tightened. "It wasn't a pleasant trip. It lasted two weeks, and only three of us convicts were women. The rest of the soldiers tried to take turns on us." She glared at Rod. "But three is just enough to guard each other's backs. After we killed a couple, they held off. They tried to get the ship's brass to tie us down, but they told us they just steered the damn thing and made it go; we convicts were each other's problems." She shivered. "We had to take turns sleeping, but we got here intact."

"And here?" Gwen's eyes were huge.

Chornoi shrugged. "It's a little easier now. Oh, the other two—when they found out how much they could make, once the convicts were getting paychecks again—they set up shop. They own their own houses now, and each of them is richer than any man on the planet."

Gwen was pale now, and her hand trembled as she lifted her glass, then put it down. "Yet thou didst not—how didst thou say it…"

"Go into business." Chornoi nodded, eyes glittering. "But I had to fight 'em off every day, at first—two or three in any twenty-four hours, till I got a reputation. Now it's just two or three a week. The ones who survive out here are smart, though—they back off when it starts getting dangerous, so I've never had to kill one."

"Yet do they not come at thee in company?" Gwen whispered.

"That's why I was sitting back there." Chornoi jerked her head toward a table in a back corner. "I can see the door, and the whole room, but nobody can come at me from behind. They haven't tried, though." She took a sip of her ale, but grimaced as though it were bitter. "Gotta say that much for male chauvinism—when there're so few of us, each one is pretty precious. Any one of them might come at me by himself, but he doesn't want any of his mates to see him trying."

"They'd string him up by his toes," Yorick said quietly.

"Probably for target practice." Chornoi shrugged. "Better him than me."

She lifted her mug for a long swallow, then slammed it down. "So, there you have it. I can't walk through this burg without getting razzed, so anybody who's getting hassled, I'm on their side. Especially women." She nodded to Gwen. "And I think I can trust your man, because he's with you— so why would he want me?" Her mouth twisted in self-contempt. "Oh, don't give me that sympathetic look! I know I'm a hot enough item." She turned and glowered at Rod. "Maybe too hot. I want to get off this planet, so badly that I can't think of anything else—and you folks haven't been here before, which means you haven't been sentenced; so you might get to leave. You might be able to spring me."

Rod frowned. "I thought this was a military prison. Shacklar's just the warden. How can he have the authority to let you go?"

"He can do anything he wants—now," Chornoi said, with a mirthless smile. "PEST cut us off four years ago— right after I got here, in fact. They claimed trade to the outlying planets was a losing proposition—real losing, trillions of therms' worth. And a prison planet was all loss— it was much cheaper to kill the criminals. So they just stopped trade. The next freighter in brought us the news."

Rod frowned. "How come there was a 'next' freighter? I thought they stopped trade."

"We had a little trade going on our own, with some of the other outlying planets—but we had no more supplies coming in from Terra, no new machinery or spare parts. The good General-Governor made peace with the natives just in time."

"Thou canst sustain thyselves?"

Chornoi nodded. "The Wolmen bring in the food and fiber, and our men do the mining and manufacturing. But the end result is, we're not a prison planet anymore—we're a colony. And Shacklar's the Governor as well as the General, so he can do anything he damn well pleases with us. If he wants to let us go, we can go—but where to?" She waved an arm. "There's nothing out beyond that Wall but grass—and Wolmen."

"He won't let you leave the planet?"

"Oh, sure, if he thinks one of us should be allowed to— and if we can afford it." She shrugged. "He can't give away free spaceships, you know."

Rod exchanged glances with Yorick. "Well, when the time comes, we'll find some way to get the cash."

Yorick nodded. "I think the lady could be useful, Major. Real useful."

"Vacuum your brain," Chornoi snapped. "I offered to help you, not service you."

"Wasn't even thinking of it," Yorick said virtuously. "I meant knowledge-help. I know the basics about this planet, and about PEST…"

Chornoi"s mouth twisted. "Who doesn't?"

"Yeah, but, well, uh—about Wolmar. You've been here a few years, you know the lay of the land. It always helps to have a local on your side."

Chornoi shrugged. "I'm as local as they come around here. At least I know who's who, and where the bodies are buried—some of them, anyway. And I've spent time with the Wolmen."

Gwen frowned. "How didst thou come to that?"

"They looked safer than the soldiers—and they were, while I was on probation. But probation with each tribe gave me a year to get my feet under me, and tuck my emotions into place." Chornoi shrugged. "What can I tell you? It worked."

"So," Rod mused, "you're willing to help—if we help you."

"Yeah, if you'll help me get off the planet."

"If we can."

"Well, sure—if you can." Chornoi tossed her head impatiently.

"Of course," Rod mused, "if we do manage to get off this planet, you'll make us a marked crew. I mean, PEST has to have at least one agent here and if you leave, he'll blow the whistle. Then you'll have an assassin hot on your trail before you get past the first light-year."

"I understand that." Chornoi's tone was brittle. "I couldn't blame you if you didn't want to take the chance."

Rod shrugged. "I'm not too worried about it." Especially since we're planning to leave via time machine. "After all, there's no danger from assassins as long as we're on Wolmar—and without your help, we might not live to get off the planet."

Chornoi nodded. "I'd say that's true. You said it yourself—that Wolman's murder was too nicely timed. It had to be designed to put you and your wife behind bars—or into an early grave."

"We do have enemies," Rod admitted, "and I think they would be more interested in the 'early grave' option."

"We will rejoice in thine assistance," Gwen assured.

Chornoi gave her a peculiar look, but said, "Thanks, lady." And to Rod, "So what've we got?"

Rod shrugged. "A Purple corpse." He added a bleak smile. "Even though all Purples are present and accounted for."

Yorick spread his hands. "That's about all the information we have. Not exactly what you'd call a lot."

"Nowhere near enough," Chornoi agreed. "We've got to learn more before we can make any guesses about who really did it."

Yorick leaned back, fingers laced across his belly, thumbs twiddling. "Well, you're the local expert. Tell us—where do we get more information?"

"At the scene of the crime," Chornoi answered.

"Certes, 'tis no great need," Gwen protested. "Thou hast affairs of thine own to be about."

Maybe it was the word "affairs" that made the young private redouble his efforts. "Aw, come on, Ma'am! I'm from Braxa! We used to make our own brooms there, all the time." He gave her a quick grin over his shoulder. "How else'd our mamas keep the houses clean?" He turned back to Gwen's broomstick. "See, it's just this little rope here that's come untied. All it needs is a proper square knot. Now, you just put your finger on it, right there…"

Gwen did. Of course, that necessitated bending over, and swaying closer to the young man. He swallowed hard, and gave the knot a jerk that almost broke the cord.

Behind his back, Rod was tossing a loop of rope up to catch around one of the inch-thick spikes that studded the top of the Wall, and beckoning. Chornoi clambered up it, hand over hand, with Yorick right behind her. Rod came last, and tossed the rope over the far side of the Wall. Yorick slipped down first, then Chornoi. Rod glowered down at the young sentry's back, then turned to leap, catch the rope, and glide down. He landed lightly, and Chornoi stared. "How did you do that? Without breaking your arches, I mean."

"Practice," Yorick grunted. "Come on, let's get out of here." He bolted across the open stretch of brightly-lit land, into the shadow of a copse fifty feet away. No alarms went off; the sentry was looking at something else at the moment. Rod held his breath, feeling the jealousy climb up to consume him. Then a whisper and a rustle, and he whirled about to see Gwen gliding in for a landing on her broomstick.

Chornoi turned around, did a double take. "How did you get here?"

"I trust that young man will count himself amply repaid for his kindness." Rod snapped.

"Husband, I prithee." Gwen laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "What choice was there? He'd ne'er ha' trusted Demoiselle Chornoi."

"True enough." Rod clipped off the words. "May I congratulate you on a successful flirtation—I mean, diversion. And I'll cut out that kid's liver and lights if I ever bump into him again."

"Truly, husband, 'tis unworthy of thee." Gwen's eyes were large with reproach. "Be mindful that the lad spoke to a Gramarye witch, and, moreover, one who can cast thoughts and feelings. Truly, the lad had no chance."

"In more ways than one," Rod sighed, "and you don't need to mention your powers to explain it. I suppose I don't have any right to be angry with him, do I?"

"Nay, certes," Gwen breathed, swaying close to him. "But we tarry."

"How the hell does she know where to go?" Rod muttered to Yorick. "Okay, so the planet has a moon or two, so we've had light almost all the way, and when the big moon set, she just had us wait twenty minutes till the other one rose. But even with it, I can scarcely see twenty feet in front of me!"

"Well, I can see fine." Yorick grinned. "You Sapiens have just gone soft, that's all. Too many millennia of lighted streets."

"What's she?" Rod grumbled. "A Neanderthalette?"

Yorick shook his head. "Not a good enough build. Kinda scrawny, y' know? And the face is kinda flat and angular. But I think she's a nice kid underneath it all."

Actually, Rod had been thinking that Chornoi was a classical beauty—or would have been, if her face hadn't been constantly pinched with hostility. And her body was anything but "scrawny." However, he could understand why she wouldn't measure up to the Neanderthal ideal of femininity. The comment on her interior self, though, he doubted. "You must be seeing deeper than I am."

Yorick shrugged. "You Saps must be damn near blind."

Rod wondered if he meant that to be interpreted both ways.

"Come on." Yorick stepped up the pace. "We've got some serious catching up to do."

Chornoi strode ahead of them, as briskly as though she hadn't realized she was climbing a thirty-degree slope. Finally she came to a stop, and the men huffed and puffed up beside her, with Gwen silent at Rod's shoulder.

"Here it is." Chornoi waved a hand.

They stood on top of a ridge, oriented roughly east-west. The moonlight showed a plain stretching out for miles about them, unending grassland broken only by the occasional copse and a line of stunted trees that straggled across the prairie, marking a watercourse.

Rod took a deep breath. "Quite a view."

Chornoi nodded. "It's spectacular by sunlight, but I don't think we can wait for that." She pointed. "There's the actual Sun-Greeting Place."

A stone step rose from the ground a few feet in front of them. Thirty feet away, an upright slab bulked large against the night. Chornoi slipped a slender flashlight out of her jacket and aimed it at the boulder. Its beam showed that the top of the standing stone had been flattened from front to back and leveled, then notched, eight deep gouges cut out of the rock. The first, fourth, and eighth were very deep.

"The shamen come up here every morning to greet the sun," Chornoi explained. "They take it in rotation. It's a religious ritual, of course, but it has a very practical purpose, too—every morning, the Shaman of the Day sees how close the sun is coming to one of the big notches. The middle one is the equinox—there're sixteen months here; the two moons revolve eight times a year, and they rule the months in alternation. Figure that the first groove is the winter solstice. The sun starts there, moves down to the middle groove for the vernal equinox, goes on to the eighth groove for the summer solstice, then moves back to the middle groove for the autumnal equinox, and on back to the first one."

"New Year's," Yorick said.

Chornoi nodded. "And it's up to the shaman of the Purple tribe to keep an eye on the sun. When it rises behind the fourth notch, he goes home and tells everybody to start planting. When he sees sunrise through the eighth notch, he tells everybody to celebrate."

"A midsummer night's dream?"

"You could call it that," Chornoi said sourly. "Then the sun starts to swing back, and when it rises behind the fourth notch again, the shaman tells the tribe to get ready for harvest."

"Then back to Midwinter, and the whole thing starts all over again." Yorick knelt by the stone step. "Want to shine that thing down here, Ms.?"

"Why not? But call me 'Chornoi,' all right? We're working together now."

The light gleamed on the rough stone at the base of the slab. Yorick ran a finger across the surface, and stopped at a dark blot.

They all stared, silent for a moment.

Then Yorick's finger went on to trace another drop, and another.

"Blood," Rod said softly.

"I'm not quite equipped to run a chemical analysis," Yorick mused, "but I'd say that was a pretty good bet. Want to scan the area, Ms. Chornoi?"

"Well, that's an improvement, I guess," Chornoi grunted. She moved the circle of light slowly over the area around the stone step. The grass stood about three inches high.

"Nice to find out they keep it mowed," Yorick said, "but that's about all I see."

Rod nodded. "Not the slightest sign of a struggle. Whoever our hatchet man was, he was remarkably neat."

"Damn near inhuman," Yorick agreed.

"Not quite." Chornoi's lips were thin. "Some of my colleagues were extremely efficient. I wasn't too bad, myself."

Yorick looked up. "But the blood on the stone does kind of indicate that the Wolman met the cleaver when he stepped up here to greet the sun."

Rod frowned. "Yeah. So what… Oh!"

"Right." Yorick nodded. "Who steps up to the Sun-Greeting Place to greet the sun?"

"A shaman," Chornoi breathed.

"But none of the shamen are missing," Rod pointed out.

"So what?" Yorick shrugged. "None of the Wolmen are missing. So why shouldn't it be a shaman who's not missing, instead of just an ordinary warrior?"

"More to the point," Chornoi said softly, "why shouldn't it be Hwun? After all, he's the shaman of the Purple tribe, and they're the ones closest to this place."

"No reason at all, except that Hwun is very much alive. Far too much so, for my liking." Rod frowned. "What is this business about Hwun being the chief chief, when he's also the Purple shaman? I've heard of overlapping directorates, but isn't this a little too obvious?"

"No problem there." Chornoi shook her head. "Wolman government is basic democracy, Major—very basic. They just sit around in a circle and discuss who's going to be leader. And when most of them agree—well, that's who the leader is. Every clan does it that way—and, once they've decided on a leader, they tend to stay with him. So when the clans gather for a tribal meeting, it's the clan headmen who sit down to elect the tribal leader."

Yorick nodded. "Which means that one of the tribal chiefs is going to be the national chief."

Chornoi frowned at him. "You had experience with this kind of thing?"

"We were Number One. So they held a tribal meeting like that to fight the soldiers better?"

"You have been around. But it was a national meeting— all the tribes banded together for an all-out war."

"Makes sense." Yorick agreed. "After all, it was probably the first time in their history that they'd had somebody to fight besides each other."

Gwen shivered. "Must men forever be fighting, then?"

"Sure. How else would we get you ladies to notice us, instead of the other guys?" Yorick turned back to Chornoi. "This wouldn't happen to have been the first time they'd ever banded together for anything, would it?"

Chornoi stared at him, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Up until the convicts came, they'd always been fighting each other, just the way you said."

Yorick nodded. "Nice of you to help out that way."

"Yes, bringing civilization to the poor savages." Rod's eyes glittered. "I always find unification fascinating."

Something in his voice made Chornoi look up with a scowl. "Don't make any mistake, Major. It was the Wolmen's idea to get together to fight us, not the colonists'. Just a marriage of convenience, that's all."

"And as fragile as such unions usually are, I'm sure— but one which Shacklar and Cholly have steadily been trying to strengthen."

"Oh, that's deliberate enough, sure—and Shacklar definitely likes having a national leader he can deal with. But they chose Hwun, not him."

"At a national council?"

Chornoi nodded. "The tribal leaders got together, so of course they chose one of their own number. That's how come Hwun, the Purple chief, wound up being acclaimed chief Wolman chief."

"Makes sense." Rod nodded. "But why'd they elect a shaman instead of a general—excuse me, 'war-chief?' I mean, how good a tactician is a pholk-physician going to be?"

Chornoi shook her head. "Medicine's only part of it, Major, only a spin-off, really. His main function is spiritual. He's a holy man."

Rod shuddered. "I don't like the sound of that. Religion and politics make a lousy combination."

"But it's very useful when you're trying to keep all the factions of your people together," Chornoi pointed out. "That's Hwun's main job. As to fighting when they went to war, he had four generals, one for each tribe. They took care of the tactics; he just had the final say on strategy."

"Neat." Rod scowled. "In fact, a little too efficient for my liking."

"But his constituents can recall him at any minute," Yorick pointed out.

Chornoi gave him an irritated glare. "That's right, in fact. How'd you know?"

"Y' seen one oral culture, y' seen 'em all," Yorick said. "Not really true, but they do all have certain characteristics in common. Government by consensus is one of 'em, and instant recall is part of that."

"Instant, yes—by the most effective means available. At least, sometimes. In fact, it has occurred to me that we may be looking at an impeachment here."

Yorick shook his head. "You'd know better than I would, but I find it hard to believe. This kind of a society wouldn't understand that kind of sneaky killing. If somebody wanted to challenge the head honcho, he'd just do it. In fact, the more witnesses he had for the fight, the stronger his support would be."

Rod nodded. "That sounds right. Besides, you said it yourself, Chornoi—some of your colleagues are inhumanly efficient. This is such a neat job that it fairly screams 'professional.'"

Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. Probably well armed, too."

Rod frowned. "But he didn't use a blaster. If he had, there wouldn't have been blood."

Chornoi shook her head. "A pro wouldn't have, Major. This was right at dawn, remember? A blaster bolt would've been seen. It also might have set a fire, and people would have really started wondering." She shrugged. "Sometimes the oldest weapons work best."

"Well, one thing's sure, then." Yorick stood up, dusting off his hands. "It wasn't any Wolman who did this killing. I mean, they may be pretty enthusiastic, and I'm sure they're skillful, but when you get right down to it, when it comes to killing people, they're really amateurs." He nodded to Chornoi. "One of the soldiers did this—and one trained for commando work."

"Probably." Chornoi gazed at the dark spatters on the stone. "Don't sell those Wolmen short, though. They've become very competent warriors since they started fighting these convict-soldiers. Very competent—and they've been developing a lot of skill with blasters, ever since Shacklar took over and the truce began."

"I do not understand," Gwen murmured. "Why doth he give Wolmen his weapons, when to keep them to his own men would yield him great advantage?"

Chornoi shrugged. "He seems to think that if it comes to war, the colonists are going to be wiped out, sooner or later. We're so heavily outnumbered that our only real hope for survival is peace with the Wolmen."

"And the only way to be sure of that," Rod said stiffly, "is to meld the two cultures into a single, unified society."

Chornoi nodded. "And having all the blasters on the soldiers' side, doesn't exactly help build Wolman confidence."

"Maybe not." Yorick looked around. "I get the feeling we're missing something. There may be evidence of a struggle in the area around here—or some other kind of evidence that we won't find at night."

"True," Rod said judiciously. "With only a flashlight, we're limited to looking at what we already suspect. We'll have to wait for daylight to get the Big Picture, and any clues we haven't thought of."

"There's a problem with that," Yorick pointed out.

"Aye, my lord," Gwen added. "We must needs be at the Governor's great hall in the morn—e'en by dawn."

Rod shrugged. "So what? We already skipped town, didn't we?"

"Aye, yet they did enlarge us upon our parole."

Chornoi stared. "What is she talking about?"

"She means Shacklar only let us go, because we promised to come back in the morning." Rod's mouth tightened at the corners.

"'Twould be dishonorable, an we did not return."

"Well, true, but this isn't Gramarye. Honor isn't quite so important here."

Gwen stared at him, scandalized. More importantly, Rod realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he didn't believe it himself anymore. "All right, all right! We'll have to go back to town! Besides—skipping town is one thing, but skipping the planet is entirely another!"

Gwen frowned. "What is a 'planet,' my lord?"

Chornoi just stared at her; but Rod took a deep breath and said, "Well. A planet is a world, darling. It's not flat, you see—it's round, like a ball."

"Assuredly not!" she cried.

Rod shrugged. "Okay, so don't believe me—just take my word for it. I came to Gramarye on a 'shooting star,' remember—and I got to see the planet from way up. Way up—and it's round. Oh, believe me, it is round!"

"He's telling you the truth." Chornoi frowned, puzzled. "I've seen planets from space, too, and they're round, all right. Like that." She pointed at the single moon that was still up in the sky. "It's just a very little planet. The word means 'wanderer,' see, and you know how the moon wanders; it moves all over the sky."

"Aye." Gwen frowned, trying to absorb the alien concept. "There be others, be there not? Stars that do wander."

"Right." Rod nodded. "They're worlds, too. But most of the stars, the ones that stay put—well, they're suns, just like the one that gives us light and heat during the daytime."

"Can they truly be?" Gwen breathed, eyes round. "Nay, surely not! For they be but points of light!"

"That's because they're so far away," Chornoi explained.

"Nay, it could not be." Gwen turned to her, frowning. "For they would have to be so far distant that…" She broke off, her mind reeling as she realized just how far away that would have to be.

Chornoi watched her, nodding slowly. "Yes, ma'am. That's how far away. So far that it takes their light quite a few years to get here."

"Yet how can that be?" Gwen asked, looking from Rod to Chornoi and back. "How can light take time to come to a place?"

"Well—it travels," Rod said. "Believe us, honey—there's no easy way to prove it. I mean, it has been proven, but it was very hard to do, very complicated. Light travels at 186,282 miles per second. That's about six trillion miles in a year." Gwen's eyes lost focus, and Rod confided, "Don't try, dear. We can't really grasp the idea of a distance that huge—not really, not emotionally. But we can be intimidated by trying." He turned to Chornoi. "The nearest star here—it wouldn't happen to be visible, would it?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the third star in the barrel of 'The Blaster'— one of our homemade constellations." Chornoi stepped up beside Gwen and pointed. "You see those six stars, forming a rough parallelogram—you know, a rectangle leaning sideways?"

Gwen sighted along her arm. "Aye, I see them."

"Well, that's the handgrip. And that line of four stars at a right angle to them? That's the barrel. The third star in from its end is our nearest neighbor." Chornoi shrugged. "It doesn't really have a name—just a number on the star-charts. The soldiers call it 'The Girl Next Door.'"

"How far away is it?" Rod asked.

"Just under seven light-years."

"Dost mean…" Gwen swallowed. "… that the star I see now is not truly the star? That 'tis but light that hath left it seven years agone?"

"Right." Rod nodded with vigor. "We're not seeing it as it is, but as it was seven years ago. Very right, dear. For all we know, it could be blowing up right now—but we wouldn't find out about it for seven years." Secretly, he was impressed with the quickness of Gwen's understanding.

His wife just stared up into the night sky, lost in the immensity of the concept.

"And planets," Rod murmured, "swing around and around their sun in circles that are just a little bit egg-shaped."

Gwen whirled to stare at him in astonishment. "Nay— for surely the Sun doth go about the Earth! I do see it rise and go across the sky daily!"

Rod shook his head. "It just looks that way. It's the earth that's turning, really." He cranked with a finger. "Around and around, like a spinning top. Stop and think about it— if you're turning around and around, it looks as though Yorick, there, is turning around yow, when he's really standing still, doesn't it?"

Gwen gazed at Yorick, then slowly began to turn around in place. After two revolutions, she said, "'Tis so." She stopped and looked up at Rod. "Yet merely from looking, how can I tell whether 'tis he that's moving, or I?"

Rod's breath hissed in. He'd known Gwen was intelligent, but he was amazed by the quickness with which her mind darted on to the next question. He stared at her, astounded by her mental leap. Then he smiled weakly. "Well, you have to have other kinds of evidence, too, dear. For example, when we look through telesc… uh, closely at other planets, we can see their moons going around and around them. That explains why our own moon wanders the way it does—it's really revolving around us. Which makes it a pretty good bet that we're revolving around our sun, especially after we've found out that it's a heck of a lot bigger than any of its planets." He shrugged. "And the bigger it is, the harder it pulls."

She stared at him for a long moment, then said slowly, "And is it for that reason that we will have such great difficulty in leaving this 'planet?'"

Rod caught his breath, staring at her. Then he opened his mouth, breathing in, and finally said, "Yes. The planet pulls things to it, just as the sun pulls the planet toward itself."

"Then why doth the planet not fall into the sun?"

"Because it's going too fast. Like…" Inspiration hit. "Like you, when you're trying to catch Geoffrey. He goes flying past, and you grab him, but because he's going so fast, you can't pull him in against you. On the other hand, you're holding on tightly enough so that he can't get away, either, so he just swings around at the end of your arm. Now, imagine that he refuses to stop, and he just goes on swinging around and around you, forever. And it's that same kind of pull, like your pull on him, that attracts things to the planet. Of course, from where we're standing, that 'attracting' looks like 'falling.' We call the force 'gravity.' The planet pulls on the object—like this." He pulled her up against him, and wrapped his arms around her. "And it doesn't want to let the object go."

Gwen smiled, her lids drooping. "Doth the object, then, not also draw the planet?"

"You do learn fast, don't you? Yes, the object pulls, too, but its pull is very weak, because it's so small. You and I, now, aren't all that much different in size."

"Nay," she murmured, "we are well matched."

Rod was definitely losing interest in the lecture, but there were people watching. "Now. Your original question was, why is it so hard for the object to get away from the planet?"

She smiled up at him. "Wherefore should it wish to?"

"Can't think of a good reason, myself," Rod admitted, "but just for the sake of argument, let's assume it does. Go ahead and try."

"An thou dost wish it," she sighed, and pushed against him.

He loosened his arms a little, letting her move away a few inches. "See—you have to be able to push really hard to get away from me. And that's how people leave planets— in flying ships that can push really hard against the planet."

"They're called 'spaceships,' by the way," Yorick put in. "Don't let him baby-talk you, milady."

"I would not consider it," Gwen said, with some asperity.

"And the ship," Rod said, "has to push hard enough to go fast enough—that's called 'escape velocity.' And when you're up to escape velocity…" He let go, and she stumbled back. "… you escape. And that's how you get off the surface of a planet. See?"

"Indeed." She came back, straightening her hair, the gleam of battle in her eye. "Yet could we not build such 'velocity,' my lord? Thou and I, together?"

In spite of himself, Rod took a step back. It took him a second to realize she was talking about telekinesis. "Well…"

But Yorick was watching them with growing apprehension. "Uh, Major—milady—don't do anything rash!"

"It would be," Rod admitted. "We might be able to do it if we pooled our forces, darling—but there's another little problem." He coughed delicately and looked up at the stars. "You see, we're not the only thing that the planet's holding to itself. It's also holding the air that we breathe."

She stared, at a loss.

"About twenty miles up…" Rod pointed. "… you run out of atmosphere. It's just empty space, without any wind, not even a breath of fresh air—or a breath of anything, for that matter. That's why Chornoi said she'd seen a planet from space—because there wasn't any air there. Just empty space."

Slowly, Gwen lifted her eyes to the stars again. "So much blackness between them… Yet how can there be 'space,' as thou dost call it, without air to breathe? Is that not the 'space?'"

Rod shook his head. "Air is a substance, too, just like water—only lighter, not as dense. It covers the planet's whole surface, but only because gravity holds it there. The farther you are from a planet, the weaker the pull feels, until it can't even hold air anymore. And when that happens, when you've got space with nothing in it, we call that 'vacuum.' That means there's nothing to breathe, too, of course—so even if we could get out there, honey, we wouldn't last long."

Slowly, Gwen lowered her gaze to him again, but the stars stayed in her eyes. "'Tis wondrous," she breathed. "Nay, I shall trust thee in this, my lord. But I shall trust, also, that together, we may find a way."

Chornoi shook her head in exasperation. "Don't you know better than to put that much trust in a man?"

"Nay." Gwen turned to her with a smile, catching Rod's hand behind her back. "And I trust that I never shall."

It was nice to know that she felt so warm about it, especially since Rod was feeling a chill run down his back and spread out to envelop his rib cage. She had learned it all so quickly! Everything she'd heard, she'd understood instantly, or almost. And every single one of those concepts was totally alien to her culture. He was beginning to dread that she might be smarter than he was. It was one thing for him to understand her culture, but it was entirely another for her to understand his.

"Well, be that all as it may—space, vacuum, and escape," Chornoi grumbled, "but the here-and-now is that we need to look at this place by daylight, and you two have to be back in town before morning."

"I'd say that's pretty clear. It comes down to you or me," Yorick said. "And, if you'll pardon my male chauvinism…"

"I won't," Chornoi snapped. "I told you I've spent time among the Wolmen. I'll be safe, believe me, especially since I never made any bones about how much I didn't like the way the colonists did things. The Wolmen heard about it and began to chum up to me—oh, not making passes or anything, don't worry about that; they've got their own ideals of beauty, and I'm not up to their standards."

Rod bit his tongue.

"But they did cultivate me as a possible ally within Shacklar's camp. Not that I ever would've betrayed the soldiers…" A shadow crossed Chornoi's face. "…I hope. Hope even more that I never have to find out the hard way… Anyhow!" She straightened, eyes flashing. "It's enough to guarantee that I'll be safe, till I see you back in town."

"That's kind of odd, as diplomacy goes," Rod said, frowning. "On their part, I mean. That kind of wily statecraft doesn't quite square with the usual concept of the unsophisticated aborigine."

"Shacklar and Cholly have been trying very hard to sophisticate them, thank you," Chornoi snorted. "Cholly's traders are really teachers in disguise."

"Oh!" Rod lifted his head, a few facts suddenly colliding and yielding solutions. "So that's why he doesn't make much money off his Pharmaceuticals trade."

Chornoi nodded. "Something like that. His traders keep the prices low and the payments high, so that the Wolmen will keep coming back to talk to them. They've been doing a very good job of giving the Wolmen a modern education— including political science. And they begin it with Machiavelli."

Rod saw Yorick open his mouth, and said quickly, "So they know the realities of technological culture—including back-stabbing."

Chornoi nodded. "And a lot of other things you wouldn't expect them to know. But it has the advantage of letting them take the long view."

"Including being careful to protect a potential ally."

"Yes, as long as the truce holds, and it'll hold at least until your trial is over."

"And thou wilt return ere then?"

Chornoi nodded. "I'll check out this area as soon as it's light. I should be back on the civilized side shortly after dawn. If I'm too late to catch you before the courtroom, I'll drop in there." Her smile hardened. "I'll be back, don't worry. I'll be back. You folks go on now… What are you waiting for? Go on, now! Go!"

Slowly, they turned, and began to go down the hillside.

"Dosta truly believe she will be secure?" Gwen asked.

Yorick shrugged. "I dunno—these boys are savages, even though they're synthetic ones. What do you think, Major?"

"I think they're male," Rod answered, "and I think Chornoi knows just how much of a woman she is, regardless of what she said about their standards of beauty."

"There's truth in that," Gwen agreed, "and I doubt not she could lay low any warrior who sought to best her."

"Well, it'd be an even match, at least."

"No, not really," Yorick disagreed. "After all, she is a professional."

Gwen turned back for a last look, concern furrowing her brow—and froze, with a gasp.

Yorick and Rod turned back to look.

Chornoi stood at the top of the rise, stripped naked and glowing in the moonlight. As they watched, she scooped her fingers into a flat roundel and rubbed them over her arm. The skin darkened.

"Body-paint," Yorick murmured. "Betcha it's purple, Major."

"And I'll bet we'll find out tomorrow." Rod turned away, shaking his head. "Come on, troops. Somehow, I just became sure she'll be safe."

"As the mercury said to the water, 'Pardon my density.'" Yorick's gaze swiveled from Rod to Gwen and back. "But if we can do it this way, why that charade with the sentry on the way out?"

"Why, for that Chornoi did not know we were witch-folk." Gwen tucked her arm more tightly into Yorick's.

"Yeah—you know what we are," Rod reminded him, "but Chornoi probably doesn't even believe in ESP, let alone know we've got it."

"I see." Yorick nodded. "Mustn't shock the poor thing, must we? After all, she might decide she's on the other side."

"Well, her volunteering was an enormous stroke of luck…"

"Sure. Now I get it. Oh, I'm quick."

"Indeed thou art, in regard to most matters," Gwen assured him.

"Yeah, we all have our blind spots," Rod agreed. "Now, as one agent to another—do you really think Chornoi will learn anything more than we already found out?"

Yorick shrugged. "Hard to say. I don't really think there was any more evidence up there at the murder site, but you never know, do you?"

"True, true." Rod gazed steadily at the top of the wall. "On the other hand, she was pretty obviously planning to interrogate some Wolmen."

"Well, at least Hwun," Yorick qualified. "I mean, he does have to come up to greet the sun tomorrow morning, doesn't he?"

Rod shuddered. "That guy gives me the creeping chillies."

"In truth, he is cold," Gwen agreed.

"Not what you'd expect, in a Gestalt culture," Yorick agreed. "Not quite human, y'know?"

"Look who's talking," Rod grunted.

"Could we hold down on the racial slurs, here?" Yorick had the rare case of using the term correctly. "Besides, even if he is Mr. Fishface, I'll bet Chornoi will get every ounce of information that he's got. I mean, male is male."

"I know what you mean," Rod agreed, "and I don't doubt it for a second. It's just that I don't expect there to be a hell of a lot of information for her to get."

"True, true." Yorick looked towards the Wall. "The really important information is likely to be in there—if we can just figure out where to look for it. Now, let us think, Major, milady—who, besides you two, might have reason to want a Wolman dead?"

"Well, we don't have any reason to," Rod snorted. "But the obvious answer is VETO… or SPITE."

"Or both of them," Yorick grunted.

"Futurians of some kind. They tried to assassinate Gwen and me and, when we turned out to be a little too lethal, kidnapped us back in time as a second choice."

"Not too bad, either. I mean, without help, your chances of getting back to the future are very slender."

"Nay! Rather, we would surely have returned, sooner or later, to the year from which we left," Gwen objected. " 'Tis simply that, when we did, we'd have been five hundred years dead…"

"That is a problem, I think you'll admit. There's a definite limit on how much fun you can have in that condition. But it does bring up the question of why they sent you to this particular here and now."

"Wolmar." Rod frowned. "Right after the PEST coup d'etat." His eyes lost focus as he gazed off into space. "Nice question…"

"And, sin that thou didst ask it, I doubt me not an thou hast an answer."

Yorick glanced sideways at Gwen. "Where'd you get her, Major?"

"Just lucky, I guess… What was your answer?"

"To make it easy to try another assassination attempt." Yorick grinned. "The early PEST years are ideal for the purpose. The interstellar totalitarian government is brand-new, at its brightest strength, with plenty of agents left over from its coup, but not yet tied down to the central planets as secret police."

Rod nodded, feeling numbed. "Yeah… that does kinda stack the odds in their favor… But why one of the frontier planets? Why not Terra?"

"Too hard to cover up a murder attempt." Yorick shook his head. "Too many people."

"Yeah, but would they really care?"

"There is that," Yorick said judiciously. "But a much more practical point is that, with all those people to hide among, it'd be too easy for you to get away. And they know the two of you well enough to realize that you could be very hard to hold on to."

"A point," Rod admitted, "and it is hard for us to just disappear here in the grassland, isn't it?"

"Or even in the town," Yorick agreed, "what there is of it."

"Yet they have already attempted murder," Gwen pointed out, "and failed. Would they not essay summat more subtle?"

"Such as trying to frame us for murder?" Rod nodded. "Yes, I think you've summed it up nicely, dear."

"A nice little death sentence would suit them just fine," Yorick mused, "especially with a bunch of savages to insist on it not being commuted to something humane, such as life imprisonment."

Rod snorted.

"If you say so," Yorick said affably. "But it's the best theory I can come up with. Got any other candidates in mind, Major? Who else might want to create a handy little murder incident?"

Rod glowered, staring at the top of the Wall, thinking it over. Finally he said, "Shacklar."

A sentry paced by, dark against the stars.

They fell silent, staring, eyes locked onto him until he passed, and the curve of the wall hid him from sight.

Rod hissed, "Now!" and closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of lightness. He began to drift upward out of the shadow. Gwen matched his pace, rising on her broomstick. They accelerated, moving faster and faster. Yorick swallowed heavily and clamped his jaws shut.

Up, over the wall, and down the other side they glided, Yorick slung between them. His feet jarred against earth, and he let go of them as though their arms were hot metal. He gave himself a shake, heaved a deep breath, and turned to Rod with a bright smile. "Now! Just why did you suspect General Shacklar?"

"Let's talk about it when we're a little further from the Wall." Rod darted an uneasy glance toward the walkway at the top. "Come on, let's go!"

They dashed across fifty yards of open ground, into the shadow of an outbuilding, plowed to a halt, and propped themselves against the shack, chests heaving. "After all," Yorick panted, "this little murder just might bring all Shacklar's last ten years of work crashing down. He's managed to get the two sides almost to the point of joining in a single government. Why would he take a chance on busting it up?"

"To finish the job." Rod grinned.

Yorick and Gwen stared.

"Think it over." Rod felt quite pleased with himself. "Gwen and I have given him the perfect opportunity to hatch his united government. We're totally new, so no one's going to gripe much if we're just handed over to the Wolmen. That would give our friendly natives a heck of a lot more confidence in Shacklar, with the added advantage of having made the Wolmen negotiate with Shacklar as a nation, all banded together. So all the General has to do is make it clear that the Wolmen are just as much involved in deciding this case as the colonists are, and it could be the first action of that unified government he's been trying to develop."

"Very good, so far as it goes." Yorick nodded, lips pursed. "But what if the gamble fails? What happens if you manage to disappear, or if you're so inconsiderate as to prove yourselves innocent, or something? Then he's got a civil war on his hands."

"Not all that civil," Rod said, scowling. "I think he could smooth over a 'Not guilty' verdict, if he had to. He's got the two sides getting along well enough right now. They even need each other a little. Both sides sure want what the other has to offer. All he has to do is find them a convenient excuse for forgetting the whole thing."

"Just a face-saver." Yorick said thoughtfully. "Ever consider diplomacy as a career, Major?"

Rod opened his mouth, but Gwen spoke first. "He hath, and he doth." She looked from Rod to Yorick. "Yet neither of thee doth explain why no Wolman is missing."

Both men stood stock-still."

"Shall I tell thee?" Gwen said, smiling. "It may hap that Shacklar hath had his assassin disguise himself as a Wolman."

"Yeah, it's possible." Rod kept his eyes on Yorick as he nodded. "And, of course, the Futurians could have done that, too."

Yorick returned the nod. "Very possible, Major."

"So, then." Gwen set her fists on her hips and looked from the one to the other. "We have two schemes, either of which may serve. How are we to find out which is true, gentlemen?"

"Or if neither is." Rod shrugged. "We've got to find more information."

"Yeah, we keep coming back to that, don't we?" Yorick rubbed his temple with a forefinger.

"And how wilt thou accomplish this finding, my lord?"

"Go to the place where people talk, of course." Yorick grinned. "Feel like a drink, Major?"

"Very much, but…" Rod exchanged glances with Gwen. "I don't know if it'd be too healthy for us to show up in Cholly's."

Yorick spread his hands. "So it's my job. So what? Do I care? Do I worry about those bloodthirsty soldiers mistaking me for a spy? No! Do I ask for honor? Do I ask for praise?"

"You're asking for it, period! Okay, we're thankful, we're grateful! We'll praise you to the skies! We'll even give you a good reference! What do you think you might hear that's worth repeating?"

Yorick elaborated a shrug. "If I knew, I wouldn't have to socialize. Y' never know—maybe somebody's doing an awful lot of sudden spending. If he is, three guesses where he got the funds? Oh, you can find out all sorts of stuff you weren't expecting!"

Rod pondered. "Might be. But remember, this is all just a guess. For all we know, the Wolman could have committed suicide. Our hypothetical assassin isn't even a rumor."

"Don't worry, I won't give the rumor currency—not so much as a farthing." Yorick flashed him a grin. "I'm off to the pub with the public, Major. See you in the false dawn." He tugged his forelock in Gwen's direction, and turned away to disappear into the night.

"I trust the dawn will be all that is false," Gwen murmured.

"A point," Rod admitted. "What do you say we follow him? Discreetly, of course."

"Assuredly," Gwen agreed. "Who can be so discreet as ourselves?"

Rod proffered his arm. She hooked her hand over his elbow, and they wandered off into the night, following Yorick's mental trail.

"Yet is there not greater hazard here, my lord? We might, after all, sit safe in some shed and listen with our minds."

"No doubt." Rod poked his nose over the windowsill for a quick peek at the inside of Cholly's Tavern. "But I can't resist watching that muscle-bound jester in action. Besides, we're at the back of the building, and in the shadows. Nobody's apt to see us. I mean, they do have indoor plumbing here."

Inside, Yorick was gradually bringing the conversation closer and closer to the politics of the moment.

"Aye, here's to our Wolman brothers!" A corpulent corporal lifted his mug in a toast.

"And our Wolwoman sisters," a PFC agreed.

A trooper shrugged. "You have 'em as sisters, if you want. Me, I'd favor closer relations." He won a general, leering laugh, and a middle-aged private called, "Relations is what they'd be, shavetail. These Wolmen don't hold with casual acquaintance. Seducers go quick to the shotgun."

Yorick juggled with it, and lifted his glass. "Well, here's to the distaffs. May they not be disowned by distiffs."

His answer was a chuckle that died a quick death. Soldiers fell silent, glancing at each other. "Don't know much, do yer?" A sergeant snarled.

Yorick frowned at him, and shrugged. "'Last come, first numbed.' So the Wolmen get mad at us. So what?"

"So what, he says!" growled one of the older privates. "Yer wasn't here when the battles was real, chum! Yer didn't have ter go out 'gainst them bloody spears and see yer buddy's bowels ripped out!"

"Yer didn't have an arm chopped off," growled a maimed veteran, "and see the stump a-pumping!"

"Yuh didn't have their devil's yowling clawing at yuh ears, whiles yuh pulled back tuh the Wall with a dozen, where yuh'd gone out with a hundred," growled a grizzled sergeant, "and them spears and arrows poking at yuh from all sides."

"Don't sell them short," a gnarled corporal grated. "Vicious, they is, when they's fighting."

"And they isn't no cowards," another rumbled. "Arrowheads and spears can kill a man as dead as any blaster-bolt, my lad. And y' can't duck 'em, when they come in clouds!"

"How many did we lose?" The grizzled sergeant glared down into his beer. "A dozen a day? Sixty in a week? A hundred?"

"And for years it went on, years and years!" A fortyish sergeant slammed his tankard down on the bar. "We'll not have those days back—no, not at any cost!"

With a shock, Rod recognized Thaler.

"Well, even I wouldn't go that far," the grizzled sergeant mused. "I can think of some prices I wouldn't pay."

"For all that, so can I," the fortyish one admitted. "But there's plenty of prices well worth it!" He glared around him. "What's two lives, against the thousands that a war would cost? What's two lives, hey?"

The room was silent. Finally, "Aye," grunted the grizzled veteran, "but like as not, they'll squirm out of it at the trial."

"Only if they're innocent," Yorick put in quickly. "Okay, so I haven't known Shacklar as long as you have—but I'd have faith in his justice."

"Innocent or not, who cares?" Thaler turned to glower at Yorick. "If they're freed, the Wolmen will explode and swarm down on us again! And this time, every man jack one of 'em has a blaster!"

A mutter of apprehension ran around the bar. Most men shuddered, and the room was quiet.

For a time. Then a voice said,

"Kill 'em."

Shocked silence.

Then another voice. "Aye."

"Aye, kill 'em!"

"What matter two lives, in place of thousands?"

"Aye! Give the Wolmen their dead bodies in the morning, and they'll go away!"

The grizzled sergeant frowned. "But when Shacklar finds out…"

"He won't make no fuss," Thaler said, with a vicious grin. "What's the dead, compared to the living? Nay, Shacklar may be sheet-pale, but he'll say naught."

"But they're innocent!" Yorick protested.

"So're the men who would die in a war!" Thaler snarled. "What's two innocents against a thousand, laddie? Eh?"

"But the trial!" Yorick bleated. "Would you want to go without a trial?"

"They're not me," Thaler snarled. "They're not any of us."

That drew a low rumble of agreement.

"But…" Yorick stabbed with a finger. "If you sell them for peace, what's gonna happen when one of you is accused?"

"Oh, my bleedin' heart!" the grizzled sergeant growled.

"What's-a-matter, bucko? You want war?" Thaler looked Yorick up and down, as though measuring him for a coffin. "Ayuh, I think that's it. You've never seen a battle, have you, laddie? And you're sick with craving to be blooded."

"The hell I am!" Yorick said quickly. "I saw my share of scrapes before I wound up here—and calling 'em 'police actions' didn't cut the casualty lists!"

"I don't believe a word of it." Thaler slipped off his bar stool and stepped up very close to the Neanderthal, blood in his eye. "You don't have the look of a fighter to me. But you'd be glad enough to see us die in your place."

"Let's go get them," someone growled.

"Aye!"

"Aye, get 'em and blast 'em!"

"Serve 'em on a platter!"

"Aye!"

"You're in it, laddie." Thaler fixed Yorick with a glittering eye. "Come with us now, or we'll know you're against us, and a traitor to the whole of the colony!"

"With you?" Yorick stared.

Then he leaped off his bar stool. "I'll do more than come with you! I saw the two of them scurrying for cover when I was coming in here. You come with me, and I'll show you where to find them!"

Thaler stared, then slowly grinned.

"Let's go!" Yorick shouldered his way through the mob, heading for the door.

Rod and Gwen exchanged one quick, appalled glance, then shot away from the building at top speed.

Where, my lord? Gwen's thoughts sounded inside Rod's head.

Anywhere, Rod answered, looking around frantically. There.' He pointed to two huge barrels, lying on their sides, empty. Crouch down!"

Gwen did, clutching her broom to her, eyes squeezed shut. Rod hefted the barrel up and lowered it gently over her. Then he crouched down beside her, staring at the second barrel, concentrating, blocking out the rest of the world. The barrel lifted slowly, then descended to settle over him. He relaxed and sat back, leaning against its side, but kept his eyes shut, listening with his mind, seeing through the eyes of one of the less-intelligent soldiers back in the middle of the mob.

Yorick exploded out of the tavern with the lynch mob behind him. "Come on! I'll show you the last place I saw them!"

Gwen's thoughts rang in Rod's head: How could he turn against us so thoroughly, so quickly?

I don't know, Rod answered grimly, but I'm considering taking up a new hobby. Say—carving…

The sound of the mob faded, but it still clamored inside their minds. The soldiers ran frantically into the night, then slowed as the first flush of enthusiasm began to wear off. Rod's medium-soldier began to grow resentful—what was he doing, out here in the middle of the night, running nowhere?

Then Yorick's voice crowed, way ahead, "There they go! Quick, after them!"

The soldier's enthusiam leaped up again. Filled with excitement, howling with bloodlust, he ran after his companions. They swerved to the left, dashed down a darkened street, and ran for several minutes. The soldier's breath began to rasp in his lungs, and sullen resentment began again.

Yorick howled, "There! Between those two buildings! I saw 'em run! After 'em, quick!"

Excitement boiled up again, and the soldier leaped after his mates, the thrill of the chase pounding through his veins.

On down the street they ran—and on… and on… and on…

Rod thought at his barrel; it lifted, and he turned to Gwen as her barrel drifted up, then dropped down on its side. They shared a guilty look.

"How could we have doubted him?" Gwen murmured.

"Easy—I never did trust anybody who was always cheerful. But I was wrong—dead wrong."

"Not 'dead,' praise Heaven!"

"But a fool." Rod's mouth tightened. "What's going to happen to me if I keep doubting my real friends?"

"We shall repay him," Gwen assured, "with our safety."

"True," Rod agreed. "That's what he wants most right now. And, come to think of it…" He turned toward the tavern with a glint in his eye. "He has bought us a little time here, hasn't he?"

Gwen looked startled, then smiled. "He hath indeed, my lord. Art thou mad as a bantam cock, thus to beard thine enemies?"

Rod nodded. "Not a bad simile, my lady. Y'know, I'm feeling a bit thirsty. Shall we?"

"Certes, an thou dost wish it, my lord." She clasped his arm.

"After all, everyone who's out for our blood has already left, right?"

They turned to face the tavern, threw back their shoulders, and stepped off in.unison.

With a jaunty swagger, they sauntered into Cholly's Tavern.

Cholly looked up to see who was coming in, then looked again, wide-eyed.

The half-dozen patrons who were still there looked up, wondering what could startle Cholly—then stared, themselves.

Cholly recovered right away, turning back to mop the bar. "Well then, now, Master and Missus! What'll be your pleasure?"

"Just a pint." Rod slid onto a bar stool. Gwen slid up beside him, hands folded on the edge of the bar, the very picture of demure innocence. Rod grinned around at the other patrons, and they swallowed heavily, managed feeble grins, and turned back to their drinking.

Cholly set a couple of foaming mugs in front of them, and Rod turned his attention back to the important things in life. He took a long drink, then exhaled with satisfaction. "So! What's the news?"

All of the patrons suddenly became very concerned with their beer and ale.

"Oh," Cholly said affably, "nothing terribly much. The word from the Wall is that the Wolmen're beginning to drift up and pitch camp, just out of blaster range…There're twenty or thirty people out howling fer yer blood… The gin'ral's sent the captains out't' remind people where their battle stations are…"

Rod nodded. "Slow night, huh?"

"Humdrum," Cholly agreed. "I gets rumors all the time."

"Yeah, about those rumors…" Rod cocked a forefinger. "Hear anything about Shacklar?"

Cholly looked up, startled. "The gin'ral? What about 'im?"

Rod shrugged. "He seems to be taking the whole thing very calmly, if you ask me."

"We didn't," a young soldier reminded him.

Rod shrugged again. "Whatever. Is he always so coldblooded about crises?"

"Gin'rally, yes," Cholly said slowly. "I've known him to get excited when he can't find his cat-o'-nine-tails, but nothing else seems to fash him much."

"Cat-o'-nine-tails?" Rod frowned. "I thought you said he outlawed that."

"He did." Cholly fixed him with a level gaze. "But who's to arrest the General-Governor, hey? Quis ipsos custodies custodial, young man."

'"Who will police the police,' huh?" Rod nodded. "A point."

"He never does anything to anybody else, without a good reason," Cholly supplied helpfully.

"'To anybody else,'" Rod repeated. "Well, I can accept that."

"Yer don't have much choice," a fiftyish ranker snarled.

"He's always fair," Cholly reminded.

"More'n fair," the ranker growled.

"And what he does is always for the greatest good of almost everybody, as Jeremy Bentham used to say."

Rod didn't like the sound of that "almost."

"I thought Bentham's line was, 'the greatest good of the greatest number.'"

"Well, that's almost everybody, ain't it?"

"Better than Bentham hoped for, probably," Rod admitted, "but nothing to lose his head over."

As long as there's progress," Cholly sighed.

"That there is," rumbled the grizzled veteran, "with the General. Every year he makes life a little better for everybody."

"Except the Wolmen?"

"The Wolmen, too!" The young soldier looked up in surprise. "I mean, would you believe it? He's actually trying to ease us soldiers into getting along with those savages! Permanently!"

"Why don't I have trouble believing that?" Rod wondered.

"Always a skeptic," Cholly sighed.

Rod turned back to him. "I'll bet this little murder will set his plans back a ways."

Cholly's eyes suddenly clicked into "wariness" mode.

The young soldier said stoutly, "Don't you believe it!" and the grizzled veteran agreed, "He'll find a way to make this work out for the best of all of us."

"Colonists and Wolmen?" Rod said, with a lift of one eyebrow.

"Don't you doubt it!" the older man commanded.

"Oh, I don't," Rod said softly, "not one bit."

"Well." The young soldier looked up in surprise. "You're won, then?"

"Totally convinced," Rod confirmed.

The grizzled veteran still glared at him with suspicion, and Cholly just rolled his eyes up, but the young soldier grinned happily. "Well! That's done, then." He set both palms against the edge of the bar and, with a manful push, slid off his bar stool. "For my part, if I don't hit my bunk within the quarter hour, I won't make my sentry duty in the morning. Of course, I'll have a nice, snug berth in the stockade waiting for me."

"Morning?" Rod pricked up his ears. "How early? I mean, it's only…" He glanced at the clock over the bar. "… twenty-five hundred… .Huh?"

The young soldier grinned wickedly at Cholly, jerking his head toward Rod. "He is new here, isn't he?"

The young always so enjoyed being able to feel superior.

"There're twenty-six hours in a Wolmar day, chum," he advised Rod. "If I get to bed by twenty-five hundred, I'll have plenty of time for my six hours, and still make my five o'clock sentry-go."

Rod shuddered appropriately. "Horrible hours. Say, uh… you didn't happen to notice anybody going outside the Wall yesterday morning, did you?"

The young man shook his head, not quite noticing Cholly's frantic signals. "Nobody, except for Sergeant Thaler." He lifted his mug in a toast. "Your health, Cholly."

"Yours, Spar," the bartender sighed.

Spar downed the rest of his beer and turned away to the door, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He waved, and drifted on out.

Rod turned back to Cholly. "That's strange. Thaler isn't one of your traders, is he?"

Cholly opened his mouth, but the grizzled corporal was a phoneme ahead. "No. Not that it matters—they usually come in around midday, anyway."

"Oh," Rod said, with total innocence, "they do?"

"Thaler's a valuable noncom," Cholly warned. "Shacklar trusts him down to his boot tops."

"Yes," Rod said softly, "that's what worries me."

"Milord." Gwen laid a hand on his arm. "I bethink me thou hast had ale enow, for this night."

"Hm?" Rod looked up in surprise. He caught the meaning in her gaze, and said, "Oh!" He turned his attention to what was going on outside the tavern for a minute, and heard disgruntled, frustrated, thirsty thoughts—the lynch mob, coming back. "Uh, yeah! Probably. We should be going." He chugged the rest of the mug, set it down. "Put it on my tab, will you?" Then he slipped off the stool, offered Gwen his arm, and turned to stroll out the door. "Thanks for everything," he called back.

Cholly raised a hand in farewell. "Keep the faith."

Rod wondered which one, but decided not to ask. As soon as they were out the door, they leaped to the side, ran around to the back. They crouched down by the window with the bulk of the building between them and the returning lynch mob, ears and minds wide open, listening. Rod had one eye above the windowsill. After a moment, Gwen joined him.

The mob streamed in, breaking up into individual soldiers who began to think as people again. "Ar, what a waste of good drinking time!"

"I've had more luck chasing extinct species!"

"Reminds me of the last time I went fishing…"

"Blinkin' witches, that's what they are!" growled a portly private, bellying up to the bar.

"Witches!" Sergeant Thaler sneered. "Nay, ain't nothin' but the natural in this!" He turned to glare at Yorick. "Natural fowl, that is! Led us a merry chase after the wild goose, didn't you?"

"Who, me?" Yorick shook his head violently, all offended innocence."You've got the wrong bird, Sergeant."

"Have I really, now?" Thaler purred, sliding off his bar stool and taking a step toward Yorick.

The Neanderthal laid a hand over his heart. "Never chased a wild goose in my life. Just wait till they fly by, usually. Not bad, with a little orange sauce and a side of peas…"

"No more of yer lip!" Thaler snarled. "Y' won't turn us aside with yer jestin' this time!" He wrapped a hand in Yorick's jacket, and jerked his head close. "You're in cahoots with 'em, ain'cha?"

The nearest soldiers looked up, startled. Then they scowled, and an ugly murmur began.

"I saw him in here with 'em this afternoon," a private called.

"Aye, and right chummy he was!"

Thaler slid a knife out of his boot and rested the point against Yorick's belly. "I shave with this, so mind you tell the truth. You're in it with 'em, ain'cha? Up to yer eyebrows. And all you're angling for, is helping them escape."

"Whup! Whoa! Hold it, here!" Yorick waved a hand. "Fair trial! Let's be fair about this!"

"Nay," an older corporal growled. "Where's yer mind? We've been through that, and through! We wants dead murderers, not live suspects!"

"I'm not talking about them—just me!"

"What should you have a trial for?" Thaler snarled. "You're trying to help them get away, and that'll bring a war on us!" He shouted out to the rest of the soldiers, "He's a traitor! A traitor to the colony, and all of us!"

"Aye!" The soldiers began crowding around. "What do you want, all of us dead?"

"Never seen the color of blood, have yuh?"

"Aye! Let's show him his own!"

"Who's got a rope here?"

"Whup! Hold it! I give!" Yorick waved both hands as though he were erasing a blackboard. "I admit it! I'm guilty!

Just back off, boys!" He heaved a sigh. "You caught me. All right. Anything except the rope and the knife. I'll show you where they really are."

Outside, Rod and Gwen exchanged appalled glances. Then they dove for the empty barrels again.

"This way!" Yorick bellowed, charging toward the door. The soldiers parted and let him through, taken by surprise.

He leaped out the tavern door, bellowing, "Right on the first try this time! Come on! Catch the witches!"

The mob roared out behind him, baying at full voice. Footsteps thundered right past the two barrels, then faded into the distance.

The barrels glided up. Rod and Gwen uncoiled, and Rod shook his head. "I've got to see this. I've just got to."

"Aye." Glints danced in Gwen's eyes. "How will he turn them this time?"

"I dunno, but he'll find a way." Rod caught her hand. "He's a man of amazing resources. He may not be able to manipulate symbols—but people are another matter entirely. Come on, they're getting away!"

Feather-footed and silent, they fled through the night.

They sighted the mob just as it came into a large, open plaza. Beyond it, the Wall bulked large against the stars.

Yorick plowed to a stop and held up a hand. "Quiet!" he bellowed at the top of his voice. "I hear them coming! Ambush stations, quick!"

All the soldiers froze for an instant, startled. Then they melted away, as sudden as a cloudburst and as silent as the night, disappearing among the low plasticrete buildings around the plaza.

Rod felt a chill spread outward from his spine. These guys are good! he thought at Gwen. We'd better be, too! After all, we wouldn't want them to really find us, would we?

Nay, certes! Gwen melted into the shadows. From the darkness that had swallowed her came a thought: My lord? Wilt thou come?

Just a minute. Rod held up a hand. Why waste the chance? Come on—home in on Sergeant Thaler's thoughts for me!

Gwen smiled slowly, then beckoned.

They tiptoed away behind the huts and houses, drifting silently as ghosts behind soldiers whose attention was riveted to the main pathway, with the Wall at its end.

They drifted around to the side, then back in, coming up behind the leaders. Rod hefted his knife, pommel first, but Gwen held up a hand to stop him. She scowled, glaring at Sergeant Thaler. The man suddenly jerked stiff, eyes bulging out, throat swelling. Then his eyes rolled up, and he fell back—but he didn't make any noise, because he didn't hit the dirt. Rod caught him, heaved him up over a shoulder, and turned to tiptoe away.

Gwen tapped Yorick on the shoulder. He looked up at her, startled, then grinned. She beckoned, and he drifted out behind her.

The plaza lay still in the moonlight.

After a while, somebody muttered something. Somebody else muttered an answer. Then another muttered, and another, and another. The voices grew louder. Then, one by one, the soldiers began to drift out into the plaza. They looked about them, baffled and angry.

"Where be they?" a corporal growled.

"Another wild goose." A superannuated private turned his head and spat.

"He's had us again," another snarled. Then he called out, "Sergeant! Sergeant Thaler! Sap the bastard!"

They stilled, waiting for the sound of the blow, for Thaler's angry oath—but silence filled the spaces of the night.

"Where's the sergeant?" a private asked.

"I saw him hide over there." A corporal pointed toward the shadow of a low, one-storied building.

They started toward the spot, walking faster and faster.

The back of the building was bare, the space around it empty.

"Not a sign of him!"

"Y' don't mean Thaler would've run out on us!"

"That's right, I don't mean that." A staff sergeant pointed at the dirt. "Look at that sign. There's been a scuffle here, there has."

"He did for him!" the private cried. "That lousy grinning blockhead did for the sergeant!"

"Stove in his skull, likely." The corporal's eyes turned very pale, very hard. "Let's find him."

"Aye! The bloody, grinning ape!"

"Spread out, lads!" the sergeant roared. "Find the bastard, and string him up!"

"What good'll that do?" A private scratched his head.

"A world of good, for my soul," the sergeant snapped. Then a cunning gleam came into his eye, and he grinned. "Besides, one dead body's as good as another, ain't it? We'll just tell the Wolmen they was wrong; we did some clever detectin', and found out he killed their bloomin' warrior!"

The private grinned slowly, his eyes lighting with devilish glee.

"There's a sergeant'll get another stripe for brains," called another soldier.

The sergeant grinned wider.

"Y' oughta be a lieutenant, Sergeant!" called a young corporal.

The sergeant shrugged, embarrassed. "Don't make it more than it is, lads." Then he roared, "Let's go find the blighter!"

The soldiers howled and surged after the sergeant as he strode away between two buildings, following a trail that he thought he saw.

"Welcome to the wanted list." Rod slapped Yorick on the shoulder.

"Thanks, Major." Yorick heaved a sigh. "Shame to disappoint those eager beavers out there, though."

Rod nodded, commiserating. "It's hard to find a trail, when your quarry has flown—literally."

"Yeah." Yorick turned to Gwen. "Thanks for the lift, milady."

"'Twas naught." Gwen gave him a warm smile. "Ever shall my broomstick be at thy bidding."

"Uh, thanks, but I don't think I could last through enough flight hours to qualify." Yorick's grin turned a little queasy. "Definitely a vivid experience, though."

"And we're in the one place where they'd really never think to look for us." Rod glanced up as footsteps crossed above his head.

Yorick leaned back against the wall, blowing out a stream of cigar smoke. "Gotta hand it to you, Major. When you go to ground, you do a real job of it."

Rod shrugged. "Comes of long practice." He nudged the unconscious body that lay between them. "What do you think we ought to do with him, Cholly?"

"Be gentle," the tavernkeeper advised."Fact is, if you've any bloody intentions, you can take 'em right out into the night with yer. I'm keepin' yer down here just 'cause I don't like to see innocent blood shed."

"Thaler is innocent?" Yorick asked, wide-eyed.

"As much as yerself." Cholly eyed him warily.

"I protest." Yorick laid a hand on his breast. "I am innocent! I am pure! I am…"

"… full of it," Cholly finished. "And I've got to be up there behind the bar when that merry mob you've been leading comes in from this latest snipe hunt." He turned to Rod. "How'd ye work that one?"

"I didn't. Ask him." He nodded toward Yorick.

Cholly's gaze swiveled toward the Neanderthal. The caveman spread his hands. "Just gave 'em what they wanted, mine host. After all, isn't that what you do?"

"Aye, along with a measure of what they never thought of." He wagged a forefinger. "That's my calling in life, mind—and I've had all the disruption of it I can take for one night. You lie low, and keep quiet, now. If they hear yer down here, there'll be naught I can do to aid yer."

"Oh, we'll be mice," Rod promised.

"With the cat in sight," Yorick agreed.

"Thou'lt hear not so much as a scratch in the baseboard," Gwen reassured him.

Cholly turned to go up the stairs, but stopped to cast a worried glance at Thaler.

"He won't make any noise, either." Rod's smile hardened. "I mean, we wouldn't be so stupid as to take that kind of chance, would we?"

"True," Cholly admitted. "What ever ye aren't, y're canny enough. And try to catch some sleep, for I doubt not ye'll need it."

He shouldn't have said that. As he turned and went up the stairs, Rod felt the sleepies coming on. He yawned, then shook his head and blinked. "Oh, we'll manage somehow. Right?"

"Aye, my lord. Shall I give to thee…"

"… a mild stimulant?" Yorick fished in his pocket and held out a pillbox. "Go ahead, Major. Nothing lethal or addictive, I assure you."

Rod gave the pillbox a jaundiced glance, then sighed, reached out, and popped one into his mouth. "Why not? You could have bumped us off at least four times today— and without laying a hand on either of us, too."

Gwen stared at the caveman, startled.

Yorick shrugged. "I'm on your side, remember? What do I have to do to prove it—give you a deadly illness, so I can nurse you through it?"

"Nay." Gwen smiled, and Rod said, "Not that we mistrust your ministrations, understand—we'd just rather not need them."

Gwen glanced at Thaler. "Yet I beg of thee, do not give this one any lasting malady."

"Oh, of course not!" Rod said, shocked.

"Nothing lasting," Yorick agreed. He reached out a boot toe to prod the unconscious sergeant. "Come on, soldier, up and at 'em. Reveille's about to blow—and so are you." He hefted and shoved, and the sergeant flopped over, limp as a leaky rainsack.

Rod sighed, and looked up at his wife. "When you do it to 'em, honey, you really do it right. Wake him up, will you?"

Gwen's brow furrowed as she gazed at Thaler. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He looked about him, frowning and blinking, then rolled up onto one elbow, rubbing the back of a hand across his eyes. "How… where…"

"I called 'ambush stations,'" Yorick reminded him. "I didn't say who was going to be ambushed."

Thaler's head snapped up. He glared at the caveman. "You are in cahoots with them!"

"No, just a cellar. And so're you."

"Yeah," Rod said, with a wolfish grin. "You're in this, too, you know."

Thaler darted glances from Rod to Gwen and back. "What're you talking about? How the hell could I be mixed up in this? This is your…"

His voice trailed off as he saw the look in Rod's eyes. In spite of himself, he inched away—and ran into Yorick's toe. His head snapped up with a wild look, which met Yorick's flinty gaze. The caveman grinned. He had a lot of teeth. "Don't mean to inconvenience you, Sergeant. It's just that you were talking about altering my collar size, and I thought you might appreciate my returning the favor."

"You bastards!" Thaler growled, but his face paled.

There was a slam overhead, and a thundering of feet. Rod scowled up at the ceiling.

"Squire Mob," Gwen informed him. She turned to Thaler. "Thy followers return."

Thaler's face brightened. He took a deep breath—then swallowed hard as he froze, eyes rolling down to look at Yorick's blade, its point resting against his Adam's apple.

"Softly, softly," the Neanderthal crooned. "You wouldn't want your buddies to know you'd been caught like the greenest new chum, would you? Especially caught by the very people you were hunting! Can you imagine the lowliest private being willing to take orders from such a klutz of a sergeant?"

Thaler's eyes turned calculating. He closed his mouth.

"Having second thoughts?" Yorick nodded. "Wise. I always knew you were the prudent sort."

"Always an eye for the main chance, anyway," Rod agreed.

"That's a nice Sergeant." The dagger backed away a little—but only a little. "Now—the Major, here, says he'd like to get to know you better."

"Yes, indeed." Rod stepped a little closer. "It's been very instructive meeting you, Sergeant, but I'd like it a little longer on the information, and shorter on the rhetoric."

"He means he'd like you to answer a few questions," Yorick explained.

"See? He understands." Rod nodded at Yorick. "Now— what were you doing at the Sun-Greeting Place yesterday morning?"

"I wouldn't tell you the time of day," Thaler spat, but Rod felt the answer leap into the sergeant's mind. He couldn't spare time for the details, especially since Gwen's gaze was riveted to Thaler, all her attention focused on his thoughts.

Yorick snatched Thaler's wrist, whipped his arm through a half turn, and wrenched it up behind his back. Thaler exploded into mad thrashing, but he couldn't budge the Neanderthal's grip.

"Manners, manners!" Yorick chided. "We must be polite, now. Tell the nice major what he wants to know."

Thaler's eyes bulged, but he clamped his jaw shut, exuding a whining sound.

"Yeah. Let's just be friendly about it all." Rod gazed up at the ceiling, lips pursed. "Now…just what were you doing outside the Wall yesterday morning, anyway?"

"Stuff it, sniffer," Thaler growled through clenched teeth.

Rod frowned. Sniffer? Odd term. He'd have to find out what it meant in local slang. "Well, you do kind of wonder, when a sergeant takes off in the middle of the night. I mean, without any sign or explanation, he just trots past the sentry, and heads for the high hills. You can't help wondering: where was he going to? What for? Who told him to?"

Yorick twisted the wrist a little harder, and Thaler's jaw gaped open. But he groaned and panted, "No… way… tell…"

But the answers were there, popping into his mind, one after another, as Rod called for them.

"Yes, I suppose there is no way to tell," Rod mused, "but you can't help wondering what the whole reason was. Why, in the middle of the night? Why not just wait until morning?"

Yorick dangled the knife point in front of Thaler's eyes, letting it swing back and forth. The light glinted off the edge. Thaler gazed at it, fascinated, but he still muttered, "Go peddle your product in Hell."

"I don't think it'd keep too well," Rod sighed. "Uh… what say, dear?"

Gwen was tugging on his shoulder, thinking, I have learned all he knows. Aloud, she said, "There is no point in tormenting him further, my lord."

"You call that torment?" Rod scoffed, and his mind added, That was just a little stage dressing, dear, to convince him we meant business. Of course, we weren't planning on completing the transaction. If we had…

Spare me, Gwen thought quickly. But bind him, my lord.

"Ah, well," Rod sighed, "why waste time on a know-nothing? Roll over and play dead, Sergeant, so we don't have to make it real. Okay?"

Yorick let go of Thaler's arm and began to rub his shoulder solicitously. Thaler knocked his hand away and growled, eyes full of apprehension.

"Don't worry, we're just going to tie you up," Rod explained. "We can do it with you awake, or out cold, it's completely up to you. Come on, now, don't be difficult— roll over on your stomach, there's a good fellow. Hands behind your back…"

Thaler glared at him.

Then, suddenly, he surged to his feet, fist cutting up at Rod, who leaned back at the last second, but not far enough. The punch clipped his cheekbone, and he staggered back, hands snapping up to guard automatically. Fury flamed, white-hot, but he managed to direct it toward Thaler, blocking his next punch, leaning aside from the kick, then whirling back like a spring unwinding. Thaler blocked and countered, but Rod had spun inside his guard, slamming a fist into his belly. Thaler bent forward, eyes bulging again, the whining coming out of his nose. Yorick flipped him over and let him fall, face down in the dirt, dropping down with him and pinning a knee across his back, pressing his wrists together and holding them while Rod whipped a rope around them. "Gently, Sergeant," he soothed. "We could have done this the nice way, you know."

"On the other hand," Yorick pointed out, "we could have been much rougher about it, too. I didn't get my licks in, Major."

Rod cut another length of rope from the coil on the shelf. "You'd think Cholly would keep some tape around here."

"What for?" Yorick shrugged. "This isn't his ordinary line of work, you know."

"Yeah, you've got a point." Rod reached down for Thaler's ankle. The sergeant slashed a kick at him, but Rod was expecting it now. He leaped aside, caught the ankle as it passed, and bent it on up toward Thaler's buttocks. "Come, come, now! Do you really think I'm such an innocent? Haul a little on that other rope, will you, Yorick?"

The Neanderthal yanked Thaler's wrists up toward his shoulder blades. The sergeant made a whinnying sound, and his legs relaxed. Rod whipped them together with the rope, then ran a length from ankles to wrists, pulled so that Thaler's legs were bent. "Now for those nifty new knots I've been practicing!"

"Change! Innovation! Always gotta go for the new stuff," Yorick grumbled. "You Sapiens are all the same! I'll stick to the good old tried-and-true ones, thank you."

Rod sneaked a peek. "If that's your idea of an old knot…"

"I meant really old. You Sapiens never even learned 'em!…There! All neatly packaged. Roll over, pretty boy!" He flipped Thaler onto his back. "We don't trust you not to yell." He pinched Thaler where he had the most flesh available. The sergeant opened his mouth in a bleat of sheer surprise, and Rod jammed a handkerchief into it. Yorick grabbed Thaler's head and held it still, while Rod wrapped another handkerchief over his mouth and around behind his head, tying it with a square knot. "Sorry you're going to be feeling so dry, especially with all that beer just overhead. But don't worry, somebody's bound to find you, right after breakfast."

Yorick tucked his hands under Thaler's shoulders and nodded to Rod who caught Thaler's knees. They both heaved up and carried the sergeant over under the stairs, where it was nice and dark.

Gwen's thoughts sounded in Rod's head, disappointed: Didst thou truly need be so rough?

'Fraid so, dear, Rod thought back. Didn't you see what his psyche was doing when you woke him up?

Gwen was silent a moment. Then: Aye, indeed. The feeling of helplessness, of being totally without defense.

Rod nodded. Psychologically, he can handle this much better than your mental knockout, with no visible means. This, he can comprehend; it's ordinary to him. He can deal with it. He shrugged. But we had to make it convincing.

An thou sayest it. Gwen sighed. Shall I tell thee, then, what his thoughts were?

That, I'd like to hear. Rod strolled back toward her, beckoning Yorick, and sat down, with the length of the basement between them and Thaler. The Neanderthal settled beside him, and Rod breathed, "Aloud, but softly, so the big guy can hear, but his victim can't."

"What do you mean, my victim?" Yorick snorted.

"I kind of got the gist, while we were questioning," Rod went on, "but I missed the details."

"Oh, so that's what you were doing!" Yorick grinned. "I wondered why you gave up so easily."

Gwen just stared at him.

"I wasn't kidding, dear," Rod said softly. "We were being gentle."

"Relatively," Yorick agreed. "But then, everything is relative, isn't it? According to the anthropologists, I'm even a relative of yours."

"Removed," Rod said quickly. "Several times removed—but not far enough."

"Aw, you're just a stickler about the straight line of descent," Yorick groused.

"Sure." Rod shrugged. "It's mine. We've got a common ancestor—but you guys branched off into a dead end road that fizzled out."

"If you can call a hundred thousand years 'fizzling out,'" Yorick snorted. "As to its being a dead end—well, at least we left Terra in good shape, when we ran off."

"Gentlemen!" Gwen held up her hands, one palm toward each mouth. "Will it please thee to hear what our sergeant did outside the Wall, yestermorn?"

"Yeah, that would be nice." Rod turned back to her, all attention. "He never went anywhere near the Sun-Greeting Place, did he?"

"Not by a league," Gwen confirmed, "nor a dozen leagues, for all that."

Yorick frowned. "Spare me the suspense. What was he doing outside the Wall?"

"He did perform the role of a courier," Gwen explained.

"The General-Governor had sent him to bear word to the Chartreuse tribe." She turned to Rod, frowning. "Tis an odd name for a color."

"Unchartered territory," Rod agreed. "So what was he telling the Chief?"

"Yeah." Yorick frowned. "Why the hell did he have to go out in the middle of the night?"

"For that," Gwen explained, "the Chartreuse tribe had borrowed a great sum from the General's—'bank,' did he call it?"

"Savings," Rod explained. "Think of embers banked, to be saved through the night, dear."

'"Tis an odd word, yet an odder thought." Gwen turned to him, frowning. "Why do these folk not keep their money themselves? Wherefore must they give it to others to save for them?"

"Too much chance of thieves," Rod explained. "This way, instead of always worrying about robbers, they only have to worry about the banker—and they always know where he is."

"Almost always," Yorick qualified.

"Well, true," Rod admitted. "Anyway, it's much more efficient."

"An thou sayest it," Gwen sighed, "though I bethink me I'll comprehend thy 'gravity' sooner than thy banks."

"Just think how the Wolmen feel. So the Chartreuse tribe owes the Bank of Wolmar a lot, huh?"

"Aye, yet they did have the wherewithal to repay stored in the bank. Naetheless, they had sent to ask for the…" she scowled "… for the… 'interest rate?'… on the loan, as it did compare with the 'interest rate' they did receive, on their saved money." She frowned. "What is this 'interest rate,' my lord? Doth it denote the degree of attention the Chief doth pay to the Banker?"

Rod had to swallow hard. "I suppose you could say that, dear. What it means, though, is how much the bank is paying the Chartreuse tribe for the use of its money."

Gwen stared. "But why would the bank wish to use money?"

"Same reason any of us would," Yorick sighed.

"To invest, dear," Rod explained, "Say, to buy shares in a captain's trading voyage. He wants to make the voyage right now, not in ten years, which is how long it would take him to save up the money by himself."

"Then this bank will make more money from the captain?"

"A lot more, and it'll deal with lots of captains, not just one."

Gwen frowned, eyeing him strangely, then sighed. "An thou sayest it. I ken the meaning of the words, but I do not ken the manner of thought that doth produce it."

Rod said "I'm not certain about it, myself."

"Yet wherefore doth the bank pay the Chartreuse for the use of their money, whiles the tribe doth pay the bank for the use of its money? It doth but go about and about in a circle, my lord! It maketh no sense!"

"I'm not sure it does to me, either," Rod confessed. "But I think it works this way: if the Wolmen are getting twelve percent—twelve BTUs for every hundred—and are only paying ten percent for the money they've borrowed, they make two percent profit by keeping the money in the bank, instead of using it to pay off their loan."

Gwen stared.

Then she took a deep breath, and said, "Yet the bank thereby doth lose this two percent thou speakest of! Wherefore doth it pay more than it doth receive?"

"I can't make sense of that one, either," Rod confessed. "The only thing I can think of is that Shacklar must run the bank, and that he's willing to take the loss to make the Wolmen dependent on him. After all, if a man has all your money locked up, you're… not… too… apt to make war on him!" He stared, his eyes huge. "My lord! Of course! He's buying them off!"

"Yet, then, if they send to learn of their money's interest, doth it not mean…" Gwen's eyes rounded, too. "Nay, certes! They did seek to recover their money, that they might be free to make war!"

"Without taking a loss on it," Rod said grimly. "Which is plenty of reason for Shacklar to send a courier out in the middle of the night. Just what was the message he carried?"

"That the interest rate was but now increased by five parts in a hundred."

"A five percent hike, on the spur of the moment?" Rod goggled, and Yorick whistled. "This Chartreuse chief knows how to bargain! Nothing like the threat of war to motivate the General into giving them a little extra profit."

"Very sharp," Rod agreed. "What did the Chartreuse tribe send back—a polite 'Yes,' or a withdrawal slip?"

"Sergeant Thaler did bear back word lauding General Shacklar for his honesty, and naught more."

"Which means they left their money on deposit." Rod drew a deep breath. "Y'know, Shacklar's not too bad a horse trader himself. What's five percent against forestalling a war? He may just have had the right idea, trying to bring the Wolmen into the modern world." But he wasn't sure that applied to Gwen.

"Here, then!" Cholly's voice called down the stairwell. "Have a care, mister and missus! Here's one who wants't' talk't' yer!"

Rod looked up, adrenaline thrilling through him.

Chornoi came down the steps, face a bright pink.

Gwen smiled. "Thou dost seem newly scrubbed."

"Of course," Chornoi snapped. "Wouldn't you be?"

"Aw! I thought you looked good in that color," Yorick protested.

Rod relaxed, feeling the adrenaline ebb. "Yeah, it was the real you."

"Oh, stuff it!" she blazed.

Rod stared, taken aback for a moment. "What's the matter? Didn't you like being a Wolman?"

"What do you think?" she snorted. "It's not easy, being Orange."

Yorick pushed a crate over with his foot. "Sit. Tell us what's happening under the big open skies."

"Do not heed their impudence," Gwen advised. "Truly, within, they rejoice to see thee home and hale."

"They sure hide it well," Chornoi growled.

"Thanks." Rod nodded. "Now, tell us what happened out there."

Chornoi snorted, and dropped down on the crate. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

They stared at her for a moment.

Then Rod sighed and leaned back. "We couldn't really expect anything more, anyway. But somebody must have come to the Sun-Greeting Place."

"Oh, he did—and it was Hwun, all right."

"But he smelled a rat?" Then Rod struck the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Of course—what's the matter with me? He knows every member of his tribe by sight! Why didn't I…"

"Don't worry, I did." Chornoi's mouth turned down at the corners. "He's a Purple chief, so I was wearing Orange paint. And I staged it well: When he came up in the false dawn there, with the sky just beginning to glow in the east, he found me on my knees, weeping." Her eyes lost focus; she gave a slow, critical nod. "Yeah, I did it well… He just stood there for a few minutes. I pretended I didn't notice. Then he reached down and grabbed my shoulder." She winced. "He grabs hard! Talk about a grip of steel…"

"I trust he did not hurt thee!" Gwen frowned, concerned.

Chornoi shook her head. "I don't think he meant to, and I suppose he was sympathetic, by his lights. He said, 'Woman. Why you weep?'"

"Wait a minute." Yorick held up a finger. "Didn't he want to know your name?"

Chornoi shook her head. "No need. I was from another tribe—that was all he needed to know. And that I wasn't trespassing—because I was on sacred ground, which is open to all. So I told him that I was weeping for the man who was killed yesterday morning. And Hwun said, 'But him not of your tribe.'"

"Oh, did he!" Rod lifted his head slowly. "That means the corpse must've still had his body-paint on when Hwun found him."

"Which means Hwun washed it off." Yorick frowned.

"Yeah, to hide the victim's identity." Rod scowled. "Why would he want to do that?"

But Chornoi was shaking her bowed head, waving her hands in front of her, palms out. "No! Hold it! Stop! You're both missing the main point!"

"Which is?" Rod asked.

"That Hwun wants to get all the tribes together, and the dead Wolman could be a very powerful common focus. But it'll work much better for that, if nobody can tell which tribe he came from."

They sat still for a moment. Then Rod nodded slowly. "Yeah… that could be…"

"More than 'could,'" Chornoi snorted.

"Then he did tell thee thou wert not of the slain man's tribe?" Gwen said.

Chornoi nodded. "So why was I weeping? Well, I had to think fast, I tell you! But I did, and I told him I was weeping for all Wolmen, that I would weep for any, who died at the hands of the Colonists!" She frowned. "I was waiting for him to tell me to stand up, but he never did."

"And for him to warm toward a weeping woman?" Rod said softly.

Chornoi glared at him. "I told you, I don't fit their standards of beauty!"

Rod didn't believe it. "Even so—you were female, and grieving. And you're young enough. You were waiting for something resembling a chivalrous response, weren't you?"

Chornoi held the glare a moment longer. Then her mouth twisted, and she admitted, "Yes, I was. But there wasn't any—not the ghost of a one."

Yorick grinned. "Well, you knew the Wolmen were a bunch of male chauvinists."

"Sure," Rod cut in. "Any primitive culture's going to be patriarchal."

"Not 'any.'" Yorick held up a palm. "But these guys are. Comes from imitating commercial fiction, no doubt." He turned back to Chornoi. "So you stood up anyway, huh?"

She shrugged, irritated. "I was getting a crick in my neck."

"So you stood up," Rod inferred. "Slowly, sinuously, with a few discreet wriggles."

Fury flared in Chornoi's eyes, but she didn't answer.

"It didn't work?" Rod said gently.

The fury faded a bit. Reluctantly, Chornoi inclined her head. "All he did was start reasoning. He pointed out that I shouldn't take it so hard. As a bona fide female, I had more to gain from the colonists than to lose."

Rod scowled. "Was he being sarcastic or something?"

Chornoi shook her head. "No… From his tone, he was just stating the facts of the case. As though it was a logical point, you know?"

"These subsistence cultures end up preoccupied with common sense," Yorick said. "So how did you answer that one? After all, there is a surplus of Wolman women, with the resulting polygamy." He frowned. "Odd, though—you wouldn't expect a leader to be quite so carefree about one of his people's women going to the men of his enemies."

"Well, that's just where I hit it. I put on the big indignant scene—that no true Wolwoman would want a man all to herself, if that man wouldn't be a Wolman, just a colonist. But Hwun just went on telling me, in that emotionless style of his, that it would make much more sense for me to have one man all to myself, if I could.

Rod frowned. "I thought he was trying to get the Wolmen out of association with the colonists."

"So did I. I stepped a little closer, snapping that there would've been plenty of Wolmen to go around, if the colonist soldiers hadn't killed off so many of our men in the war. But Hwun told me that there are always two percent more female children surviving infancy than male… I wonder who does his statistics?"

Yorick shook his head, looking dazzled. "Odd bunch of primitives they've got here."

"Must be Cholly and his educational force." Rod shrugged. "I'm surprised he didn't quote the last IDE census at you."

"No, but he did finally get around to praising my patriotism. Almost as an afterthought. Then he fed me some sort of line about how literate cultures always destroy oral cultures, then swallow them up or kill off their members."

Rod just stared at her for a moment. Then he said, "Not exactly what I usually think of as a call to arms."

"Well, it could have been, if he hadn't sounded like some damn professor!"

Rod wondered at her irritability. Of course, Chornoi was always touchy… "So what did he say to comfort you?"

"Nothing." Chornoi turned away in disgust. "All of a sudden, he spun around and ran over to the stone step. And believe me, he can sprint!"

"Primitives stay in good physical shape," Yorick assured her.

"Not that good! I swear he could've run a horse race without the horse!" She shook her head, exasperated. "He got there just in time, too. He barely set foot on the stone, and the sun came up."

"Natural sense of timing," Yorick said.

"Which some people don't have." Rod fixed him with a beady eye.

Chornoi shook her head in exasperation. "Talk about a wasted night!"

"Oh, I don't know." Rod pursed his lips. "At least, now we're pretty sure he didn't want anybody to know which tribe the corpse came from. That's something."

"Not much," Chornoi snapped, but Gwen smiled with gentle amusement. "Thou shouldst not be so aggrieved, solely for cause that he did not sway to thy charms."

Rod's eyebrows shot up as he turned to look at her.

Chornoi sat very still, paling. Then she heaved a sigh. "All right, so my feminine pride's been hit. How'd you know, Ms.?"

Gwen answered with a shrug of her shoulders. "The lilt of thy voice, the tilt of thine head. Thou art quite knowledgeable in the use of thy womanhood, art thou not?"

"I've gotten pretty good at it," Chornoi admitted, "ever since I found out that the Wolmen have a very stiff code of honor where women are concerned—especially unmarried ones. It was such a welcome relief from my fellow colonists!"

"Also safer?" Rod guessed.

Chornoi nodded, chagrined. "I've always been a favorite with them, and not just because I was disaffected. Maybe they all thought I'd make a nice addition to their lodges, I don't know—but it was nice to be treated like a lady again after all these years. And I got to be pretty good at flirting." She sounded vaguely surprised.

Rod frowned. "But if their code of honor was so stiff that they wouldn't even try to seduce you…"

"Oh, I didn't say that!" Chornoi glared icicles at him. "They all did, always, every single one. That was what was so nice about it. I could flirt all I wanted to, then say 'No,' and they'd accept it. Even if they didn't want to, they'd stop right away."

"But this Hwun did not attempt to seduce thee?"

"Not a bit, not the tiniest flirt. Not even a leer, let alone a bedroom eye."

Rod cocked his head to the side. "But it sounded as though he was interested in you."

"Oh, yeah! In who I was, and why I was there, but beyond that… Well, he didn't even seem to be aware that I was female!"

Yorick shook his head. "Odd. Definitely odd. Anomalous, in fact. Y' might expect that kind of thing in a civilized culture, but…"

"Whoa! Hold it!" Chornoi's palm went up. "What makes you so sure the Wolmen aren't civilized?"

"Because the word means 'citified,'" Yorick answered, irritated. "At least pick legitimate nits, will you?"

"Yet wherefore wouldst thou look for such behavior in cities, yet not in the country?" Gwen asked.

"Because it takes a higher degree of technology to build cities than to build temporary villages," Yorick said. "I suppose I really should have said 'highly-technological,' instead of 'civilized.' I mean, can you really call it a 'city' if it's only got a hundred thousand people, and not a single factory?"

"Yes," Rod said, with conviction.

Yorick shrugged. "All right, so we're down to definitions. Me, I think of industrial ugliness as a 'city'—you know, steam engines, power looms, railroads, factories…"

"No, I don't know." Rod shook his head. "I didn't study that much archaeology. But I can play straight man—'Why would you expect a man from an industrial civilization to not even notice that a woman was a woman?'"

Yorick frowned. "Well, maybe not 'expect', but at least not be surprised by. In the industrial culture, Major, you make progress by putting each item into its own separate pigeonhole, so you can control it and assemble it with a lot of other things into whatever new gadget you want—and what you do with your tools, you also do with your minds. So the industrial man starts seeing 'emotion' as one aspect of the mind, and 'intellect' as another, and he puts each one into its own separate pigeonhole in his soul, where it can't get in the other's way. So you might not be surprised to find that a leader who was currently dealing with a major problem, might have sex safely pigeonholed out of the way for the time being."

"But to the point where he wouldn't even notice that a woman was a woman?" Chornoi stared, appalled.

"Oh, he'd notice it, all right—but he'd ignore it."

"Even to the point of not responding as a man?"

Yorick shrugged. "What can I tell you? It's possible. But the Wolman culture isn't industrial—it's tribal, with a very basic technology that concentrates on wholeness and individuality. They see everything as weaving together into one great big configuration—and sex as a natural part of life, just like every other part. Feelings and thoughts are naturally interwoven in a culture like that. The one leads to the other, in an endless circle."

Rod pursed his lips. "Are you trying to tell me that Hwun wasn't reacting like a true tribal chieftain?"

Yorick stood still with his mouth open. Then he closed it, disgruntled. "Well, yeah, something like that. Right."

"Well, I'd say you pinned that one right on the donkey. But there's something that really bothers me about that guy's attitude." He scowled off into space, chewing at the thought mentally for a few minutes, then shrugged his shoulders with a sigh. "I can't pin it down."

"Give it time," Yorick advised. "It'll come home."

"Wagging a tale behind it, no doubt."

The door at the top of the stairs slammed, and Rod was on his feet, one hand on his dagger.

"Nay, my lord." Gwen laid a hand on his forearm. "'Tis more likely a friend than an enemy."

Boots appeared on the stairs, marching down, with loose green trousers tucked into them. Then a white apron appeared, tucked over an ample belly; then a barrel chest and bull shoulders, with Cholly's grinning face on top of them, and a huge tray piled high with steaming goodies in his hands. "Thought yer might like a nibble. After all, the sun's almost up."

"And our time with it?" Rod reached out to help lift the tray down.

"Here, now! Away with yer!" Cholly swung the tray up out of his reach. "Can't leave these things't' base amateurs, yer know! Sit down, sit down! The pleasure in a meal is as much in the service as in the cuisine."

Rod put his hands up, palms out. "Innocent, sheriff." He sat down.

"There! That's a bit better." Cholly kicked a crate into the middle of their circle and set the tray down on it, then picked up platters and began to fill them with eggs and sausage, muffins, toast, steak, and fried potatoes. "It's a local bird does these eggs, now, not yer average Terran hen. But she's a good fowl, and takes pride in her work. Lower in cholesterol, too." He set the plate on Yorick's lap. "And I won't tell yer what the steak was in its earlier incarnation. Just relax and enjoy it."

"Good, though," Yorick mumbled around a mouthful.

Rod eyed the sausages warily as they passed him, bound for Chornoi. "What's in the cartridges?"

"Pork." Cholly heaped a platter for him. "Naught but good old pork, Major. Where yer finds human folk, yer finds pigs. And why not?" He passed the plate to Rod and began to load another. "They're tasty, portable, and thrives on yer garbage. So what if they're ornery, and got nasty tempers? Just give 'em some mud, and they'll rest content." He set the plate in front of Gwen and turned to serve Yorick and Chornoi, but found they'd served themselves while he wasn't looking. "Ah, well-a-day!" he sighed, and folded his arms, watching the Gallowglasses dine with enthusiasm. "Eh, it does my old heart good to see the young'uns tuckin' into their tucker like that!"

"Couldn't be more than a few years older than we are," Rod mumbled.

"Don't bet on it, laddie." Cholly wagged a forefinger at him. "I'm all of fifty."

"Why, he is ten years my senior!" Gwen said brightly.

"A positive antique," Rod agreed. "But he cooks well, so we won't hold it against him."

"Have it as you will, it does my heart good to see folk enjoy my food." But Cholly's face puckered into a frown. "Yer surely do seem the carefree pair, don't yer?"

"What?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh. Just because we don't seem particularly worried?" He shrugged and turned back to his plate. "We aren't."

"Wherefore ought we be?" Gwen looked up in wide-eyed innocence.

"Well…" Cholly coughed delicately into his fist. "There is this little matter of a million or so wild savages who're thirsting fer yer blood."

"He's so clinical with his descriptions, isn't he?"

"Aye, my lord. Dry and bare of emotion."

"It don't worry yer." Cholly tipped his head toward them, eyebrows lifted.

Rod shook his head. "Why should they? We can always escape."

"We do excel at quick disappearing," Gwen confirmed. "Tis merely a matter of waiting thine opportunity."

Cholly looked astounded. "Then why not escape now?"

Rod shook his head. "Don't want to create an incident."

Gwen nodded. "When we do depart, we'd liefer not leave a war in our wake."

"I mean," Rod explained, "if we don't go to that trial, what's going to happen to Wolman-colonist politics here?"

Cholly was still for a moment, gazing off into space. Then he said, "'Tis a point well-taken—and 'tis good of yer to care. But ought yer not have some concern fer yer-selves?"

"We do," Gwen assured him.

"We meant what we said—if push comes to shove, we can always disappear, fade into the woodwork. But there would still be the little problem of getting off this planet," Rod explained.

Cholly leaned back on one leg, scratching where his sideburn had been. "Aye. There'd be some difficulty to that. That's why they made the whole planet a prison, now that yer mention it. Mind yer, there's a-plenty of places to hide here on Wolmar; there're some patches of mountains that not even the Wolmen would bother to go to, but as would have game enough to support just a man and his wife, and mayhap even a family."

Gwen shook her head and swallowed. "Nay. Tis this matter of family, even as thou sayest. I must needs return to them, look thou."

Cholly just gazed at her, brooding, his lower lip thrust out. "Aye, I can understand that. But where be they, Missus?"

Gwen opened her mouth to answer, but Rod said quickly, "On another planet, far away."

"Aren't they all!" Cholly sighed. He set his hands on his hips and stared up at the ceiling beams. "Aye, then, 'tis needful indeed. But I can't give yer any help if y're out to launch, in a manner of speakin'. My men only work dirt-side."

"'S okay." Rod shrugged. "We weren't really expecting anything."

"Yet 'tis good of thee to offer thine aid," Gwen said softly.

Chornoi looked up from her plate and shifted a mouthful of food over into her cheek. "That reminds me, speaking of people hiding out in Wolman territory…"

Cholly's attention shifted to her, with total intensity. "Say," he commanded.

"Strangers." Chornoi finished chewing and swallowed. "I've spent most of the last month wandering around among the Wolmen…"

"That, I know." Cholly said. "And I'll not argue that they're more considerate, and more mannerly than our colonists—and if a lady says 'No,' they'll agree, and not take exception. After all, they've plenty of women on hand. But how did this bring you knowledge of strangers?"

Chornoi shrugged. "It takes one to know one. I'm sure their disguises fooled the Wolmen, but I saw through them— maybe because I was looking from the outside."

"Indeed," Cholly breathed. "And what have these false Wolmen been doing?"

"Nothing much. Claiming a free lunch, and a place in the shade for a few hours, which the Wolmen were glad to supply—that good old primitive code of hospitality…"

"Members of the same tribe, no doubt," Cholly breathed.

"Oh, sure, if they'd come from a different tribe, that would have been a horse of a different color! But being of the same hue, if you follow me, they had the green-carpet treatment…"

"The green carpet being grass?" Rod asked.

"Of course." Chornoi gave him an irritated glance. "So the visitors just sat down, filled up, and discussed the fate of the world."

"For some hours, yer said?"

"Two or three. Then they drifted on. But afterwards I heard the occasional Wolman talking against General Shacklar and us colonists."

"Not exactly what I'd call a positive symptom," Yorick said.

"Nay, certes," Gwen breathed.

"What complaints had they?" Cholly asked. "The Wolmen hailed Shacklar as the voice of reason, right from the start. The only gripes about him came from Terra, and she was only objecting, because our good General-Governor didn't need her!"

"Ever the way with women," Yorick sighed, and Chornoi favored him with her skewerest glance.

"Of course, she hasn't been complaining lately." Cholly noted. "How can she, when she's cut us off?"

Yorick started to answer, but Chornoi snapped, "Can it!"

Rod shrugged. "Okay, so there are a few kvetchers out beyond the Wall. Why let it bother you? There are always a few malcontents."

But Yorick looked doubtful now, and Cholly shook his head. "Malcontents stay in their own villages, but Ms. Chornoi's seen several of 'em wandering about."

Chornoi nodded. "All different tribes, too."

Cholly shook his head again. "That smacks of organization."

"Plus a lot of body-paint," Rod added. "Could be the same agents, just changing their colors each time."

"Like enough." Cholly shook his head. "I'D have to apprise the General of it."

"If you have to." Chornoi was suddenly as tight as a wire. "Just don't tell him who did the noticing, okay?"

"Be easy," Cholly assured her. "I've only to refer to 'my sources,' and he never questions."

"Of course." Chornoi relaxed. "All those traders. What difference would it make which one brought the news?"

"None, to him." Cholly frowned. "Some, to me." He turned to Rod and Gwen. "But I take her point. It's worth talking, fer yerselves."

"Why?" Rod looked up. "Because it gives us a way to have a body, where there isn't a Wolman missing?"

Chornoi shook her head. "That body was a real Wolman."

Rod frowned. "How can they tell? Tattoos?"

"That, and other tribal marks."

Cholly nodded in agreement. "Yer wouldn't notice 'em in the usual course of action. However, fer yerselves, yer might be able to use 'em to win a stay of execution, by demanding that Hwun prove none of his own people was responsible fer the murder, nor that it wasn't committed by no impersonator, neither."

Rod smiled slowly, and Gwen said, "They're as likely to demand that we prove there were no false Wolmen had a blade into this, either."

"True," Rod agreed, "but no one could expect us to have evidence about real Wolmen, could they?" He grinned at Chornoi. "Thanks, lady. That might win us time."

"I'm not a lady," Chornoi snapped.

Before Rod could say it, they heard the tavern door open upstairs, and a dozen pairs of boots tramped across the floor above their heads.

"Ah!" Cholly looked upward. "Yer escort's come, I dare say."

The troop didn't lead them to Shacklar's office. Instead, it took them to a giant log cabin between the tavern and the administrative compound.

"What is this?" Rod asked the lieutenant. "Town Hall?"

"Close enough," the man growled, and he threw the door open. Rod and Gwen marched in, shoulders square and chins high. Their escort followed.

Rod took a quick look around. Inside, you couldn't have told it was built of logs. The walls were paneled and plastered, and the furniture was so smoothly finished that, at first glance, it looked like plastic.

There was a beautifully finished desk, too, squarely in front of Rod, and at least six feet high. Shacklar would've been dwarfed behind it, if his chair hadn't been so huge and ornate. Real leather upholstery, Rod noted. Well, colonists had to make do with what they could find.

The side desks were just as sumptuous, but a foot shorter. The one at the left had five Wolmen behind it, and the one at the right had five soldiers, each of whom had officer's insignia gleaming on his collar tabs.

Rod scanned the scene and saw the basis for a constitution.

A sergeant stepped out in front of Shacklar's bench, thumped the floor with an oaken pole tipped with chalk, and bellowed, "Order in the court!"

Rod bit back the traditional rejoinder, but Gwen caught his thought, and had to suppress a smile.

"Accused, please present yourselves," Shacklar said quietly.

Rod looked at Gwen. Gwen looked at Rod. They shrugged, and took a joint step forward.

"How do you plead?" Shacklar inquired.

"Guilty, or not guilty?" the sergeant prompted.

"Not guilty," Rod said firmly.

"Proof!" Hwun was on his feet behind the Wolmen's bench. "What proof them show? Must give evidence that them not do murder!"

"Come to that, I don't believe I'd mentioned that a murder had been committed," Shacklar mused. "Horrible oversight. But really, old chap, I must request that if you intend to prosecute the case, you remove yourself from the bench."

Hwun stared at him, then slowly nodded. "It is sensible."

Rod stared in amazement as the Wolman came down from the bench and around in front of it. The move seemed completely at odds with what he knew of the intractable, hostile Wolman chief. Why had he been so quick to agree?

There was a slight stirring at the back of the room, near the outer door. Out of the corner of his eye, Rod noticed Yorick and Chornoi slide in quietly. He bit his lip in vexation—he hadn't wanted them to get pulled in so openly. The soldiers might assume guilt by association.

But it was nice to feel their support.

Hwun strode up to glower at Rod and Gwen. "You say you not guilty. Give proof!"

Rod suddenly realized that he and Hwun were going to determine, right here and now, whether Wolmar's legal code would be basically Napoleonic, or basically English. If it were basically Napoleonic, it would assume that the accused was guilty, and had to prove his innocence, which meant that the rights of the individual wouldn't be the most important element in the constitution about to be born.

"No," Rod said softly. "It's not our job to prove we're innocent. You have to prove we're guilty!"

Hwun just stared at him, and his gaze was so cold that

Rod could have sworn it was giving him frostbite.

"That's so."

The Chief Chief spun around to look at the colonists' bench. A slender officer was on his feet. With a shock, Rod recognized the officer who had been so courteous to them on the Wall the morning before.

"Lieutenant Corrigan," Shacklar acknowledged. "On what basis do you state agreement with the accused?"

"Why not?" Corrigan answered, with an easy smile. "Still, it's common sense, sir. We know nothing of these two people, except that a Wolman patrol chased them to us. If anything, that would indicate a Wolman bias against them. No, really, in all fairness, we must ask that some reason be given for believing them guilty of a capital crime."

"The point is well-taken." Shacklar turned to the Wolmen's bench. "Those of us present at the hearing yesterday morning have heard such reasons, but the majority of the individuals making up this court have not. We will hear it stated anew."

Rod breathed a sigh of relief—the English concept had won out. The laws of Wolmar would assume that the accused was innocent, and the state would have to prove his guilt, which meant that the rights of the individual would be the most important element in the embryonic constitution. All of a sudden, the term "founding fathers" gained a whole new meaning.

Shacklar turned back to Corrigan. "However, Lieutenant, I must ask that if you intend to take the part of the accused, you also step down from your bench."

Thereby preserving an equal number on each side, Rod noted, as well as establishing the functions of prosecutor and defense. He hoped Shacklar would be as careful in his judgment as he was in his establishing of precedents.

Corrigan stared blankly for a moment, then heaved a sigh and stepped down to the floor.

Shacklar turned back to Hwun. "Please present your proofs, Chief Chief, your reasons why we should believe these two people murdered a Wolman."

Hwun only stared at him.

Shacklar leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, totally at ease.

Finally, Hwun said, "They were there."

Rod breathed a sigh of relief. The English concept had triumphed.

"Yester morning," Hwun went on, "them outside Wall. Outside, in middle of plain. Who know where before that?"

"Precisely," Corrigan agreed. "Who does know?"

Hwun didn't even acknowledge him. "Wolman found dead. Dead, at Sun-Greeting Place. Me found body! Who would kill him? Only colonist!" His finger stabbed out at Rod and Gwen. "Only them outside Wall—no reason! So!" He folded his arms across his chest. "Them kill Wolman."

"Oh, come now!" Corrigan scoffed. "There were traders outside the Wall, too, and Wolmen from other tribes. Even if you assume that no member of his own tribe would kill him…" He spun to the General, stabbing a forefinger. "Which point has not been established, sir!" Then back to Hwun. "Even if, //, no member of his own tribe slew him, there's no reason to think a member of another tribe didn't!"

Hwun kept his face turned toward Shacklar. "Wolmen not bloodthirsty."

Shacklar sat very still, and the faces of the other officers froze. Rod could almost hear the laughter they were holding back, and really could hear them thinking, That's not how it looked!

"Wolmen not slay other Wolmen!" Hwun thundered.

The officers' faces stayed frozen. Just what the blinking hell do you think you were doing when we came here— holding community picnics?

Shacklar managed to sublimate his feelings into a huge sigh, and leaned forward. "Be that as it may… Accused!"

"Uh, yes?" Rod looked up.

"Were you, or your wife, at the Sun-Greeting Place yesterday morning?"

Rod shook his head. "Never saw it till we went to look for evidence last night."

Hwun's head snapped around to stare at Rod, but Shacklar said, "And no one was slain last night." He turned to the panel of Wolman chiefs. "Would any of you happen to know where these two were first sighted?"

"In middle of Horse Plain," answered the Purple chief.

"On foot?" Corrigan asked.

"On foot," the chief confirmed.

"And that's a good ten kilometers from the Sun-Greeting Place. At what time did your warriors sight the accused, Chief?"

The chief shrugged. "Sun not up long."

"Soon after dawn," Corrigan translated. "Was the sun completely above the horizon?"

The chief nodded.

"How far above?"

The chief demonstrated with his hands. "Two fingers' width."

"Two fingers' width, at arm's length." Corrigan held his own fingers out, squinting at them. "Perhaps a half an hour after dawn." He dropped his hand, and was looking at Hwun. "I submit that it would have been rather difficult for the defendants to kill a man at the Sun-Greeting Place, and be in middle of the Horse Plain, ten kilometers away, half an hour later."

Hwun stared for a moment, then said, "Could have killed earlier."

"Indeed, they could have," Corrigan countered, "but did they? Have you the slightest shred of evidence that indicates they so much as met the deceased, let alone slew him?"

Hwun gave him a long, cold stare. Then, turning to his fellow Wolmen with frigid dignity, he drew himself up and stated, "Soldiers stalling." His forefinger jabbed out at Rod and Gwen again. "These two did murder! Plain for all to see!" He turned back to Shacklar. "And all can see soldiers not deal fairly with Wolmen! Oh, with goods, cash, pipe-weed, soldiers deal fair—but not life! Then, no soldier deal fairly!"

The other chiefs glared, then began to mutter to one another, darting hostile glances at Shacklar and the officers' panel. The officers stiffened, their faces turning to wood.

"Give!" Hwun thundered, holding out a hand, palm up. "Give these two to Wolmen! Give murderer of brother into our hands, to slay in justice here, now!"

"Justice! Why, you pious prig!" Chornoi was on her feet, raging. "You're not looking for justice; you're looking for a scapegoat! You know damn well that if you can't satisfy your fellow chiefs, they'll kick you out of office! And you can't satisfy them all, if it turns out it was a Wolman who murdered a Wolman! Because if it was, the murderer's tribe will defend him, and the victim's tribe will charge out for revenge! And that'll be the end of your nice little Confederation!"

"Not so!"

"Wolman law!"

"All tribes heed!" The chiefs were on their feet, shouting.

But Hwun drowned them all out. "Justice! Seek only justice!"

"Justice!" Chornoi sneered, pacing up to him. "How can a tyrant seek justice? Because that's what you really want to be, isn't it? King of all the Wolmen! Tyrant! Dictator! That's all you are—just a power-driven machine!"

Rod stiffened, feeling as though his spine had turned into a hot wire. Facts suddenly connected in his head, and sparked into fusion.

"Machine!" Chornoi spat.

Hwun's hand lashed out so fast it seemed to blur, cracking backhanded against Chornoi's jaw. She shot back, crashing into the colonists' bench.

Rod bellowed, rage erupting as he whirled toward Hwun, which brought him just far enough to the side so that the Chief Chief's fist hissed past his ear. An icicle stabbed Rod as he realized the blow would have killed him. He was fighting for his life!

The hell with fighting fair!

He came out of his crouch in a whirl, knee driving up into Hwun's groin. It struck—

With a hollow crack.

Rod howled as his knee burst into fire.

Everyone in the courtroom stood frozen, galvanized by the sound.

Hwun's hand reached for Rod's throat—but Rod's leg gave way, and crashed to the floor. Hwun's hand clawed through empty air. Fear sizzled through Rod, opening a channel for the scarlet wrath that boiled through him in a raging torrent. Rod focused it on his hand, shoving himself back up onto one knee, concentrating on the hand's edge, willing it into a sword, a battle-ax, slamming out in a chop so fast that no one noticed it had turned into the shiny gray of tungsten steel. It crashed up into Hwun's jaw. The Wolman shot into the air and crashed down to the floor, right in front of the Wolman bench.

Rod knelt, arm falling limp, panting, wild-eyed, amazed and terrified by his own action. I couldn't have hit him that hard!

Aye, thou couldst.

Rod looked up, and saw the steel of his hand reflected in his wife's eyes.

But Hwun was rolling to his feet…

… and a searing, ruby ray skewered his head.

For a frozen moment, Rod could see the line of light joining the Wolman chieftain to the blaster in the General's hand, seeming as much a part of him as his uniform.

Then the moment thawed, the beam of light winked out, and Hwun crashed to the ground.

The Wolmen stared, appalled.

Then they leaped to their feet, blasters whipping out from under their cloaks. "Blood!" They howled. "Justice!"

"Treachery!" "Kill!"

But Shacklar vaulted over his bench and landed beside Hwun's body. He yanked off the chief's loincloth. The other

Wolmen howled, outraged—but the howls died, and their eyes bulged as they stared, frozen. For a moment, the room was totally silent.

Then groans welled up from the Wolmen's chests, as they gazed in horror at the smooth curve of a groin without genitals.

Rod shoved himself over to Hwun, whipping out his dagger. He gripped the corpse's hair, and the blade sliced keenly around in a single stroke. Rod peeled back the skin. There was no blood, no fatty tissue—only the bland curve of a beige skull, with four hairline cracks forming a perfect rectangle.

The chiefs still stared, too stunned to move.

Rod jammed the tip of his dagger into one of the cracks and pried. The material resisted for a moment, then the rectangle popped open. Rod stared at a cluster of jewels, gleaming from the darkness inside.

"Molecular circuits, of course," Rod explained. "Each one of those 'jewels' was a computer big enough to run all the utilities for a small city."

He lifted his stein for a swallow, and Cholly asked, "How did you guess he was a robot?"

"Easy," Rod said, with a wry smile. "In fact, I can't understand why I didn't figure it out, for so long. I mean, a Wolman had been murdered, right? But no Wolman was missing. Which meant there was one extra Wolman." He spread his hands. "Couldn't be. And we'd met Hwun. He hadn't shown any emotion at all, except anger—but a very cold anger, if you follow me. That's how he was in everything—very cold, very factual. I suppose it was his lousy logic that sidetracked me."

"Yeah." Yorick scratched his head. "How could a computer 'brain' do such sloppy thinking, as to think you two were guilty just because you were outside the Wall that morning?"

"Especially when there were others out, too." Rod held up a forefinger. "Thaler—and we don't know how many traders."

"Right. So how come Hwun didn't see that suspecting you two, didn't make sense?"

Rod shrugged. "He could only think the way he'd been programmed—'garbage in, garbage out.' But it really should have hit me when Chornoi told us that he didn't show the slightest flicker of response to her flirting, even though every other Wolman she'd met liked flirting so much that it was her guarantee of safety. That really should have made Hwun stand out in my mind. And the real clincher is that he broke off conversation with her to run over to the stone step and greet the sun just before it rose."

Yorick frowned. "So?"

"How could he have known?" Gwen breathed.

Yorick sat for a moment. Then he lifted his head slowly.

Rod nodded. "His programming included a schedule of sunrises. Yeah, I really should have caught that. But all those factors didn't add up and hit me until Chornoi called him a machine right there in the courtroom—and I realized that explained everything odd about him."

"And that's when yer figured out that the robot committed the murder?" Cholly asked.

Rod nodded again. "Totally possible, if you program it to be an assassin, which is why the laws against doing that are so stiff. But our Futurian buddies don't care too much about laws."

"It's illegal to use blasters to kill people, too," Yorick said, wryly. "But your average murderer can't afford a robot for the job. So how often do you come across a homicidal android?"

"First one I've ever seen," Rod said. "Every other robot was programmed to protect life."

"Was't therefore thou didst not look for a murderer to be a… 'robot,' didst thou term it?"

Rod sat still, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, darling. That's probably why. Know me pretty well, don't you?" He smiled at Gwen. "And yes, you've got the word right—'robot.' The word means 'worker,' literally. It's a machine made to look like a human being, or to do the work a human being does."

"Yet how was't this 'robot' did so perfectly resemble the true Hwun?"

"Now we come to the real villain." Rod's mouth tightened. "Somebody very obviously planned the whole thing ahead of time… carefully, too. Someone—probably one of those fake Wolmen Chornoi mentioned—took a picture of Hwun, then sculpted the robot's face to look exactly like his. And put him where he could be sure the robot would be able to find Hwun alone."

"At the Sun-Greeting Place," Yorick interjected. "Then all he had to do was make sure the robot's programming included the right moves for making a fuss after the murder was over."

"So." Chornoi scowled. "Hwun went up to say his morning prayers—the real Hwun, I mean—and as he turned to face the sun, the robot hit him." She shuddered. "At least it was quick."

Rod nodded. "The robot mutilated the face so nobody'd realize he wasn't the real Hwun. Then it took the body to the closest stream, washed off the paint, and brought it to the nearest tribal village, howling for vengeance. Then it just took Hwun's place and did the best it could to make a huge fuss."

Yorick nodded. "Neatly done."

"Very professional," Chornoi agreed. "So who's the bastard who programmed the robot?"

"I'm afraid we're not to know that," a voice sighed.

They turned, startled, as Shacklar stepped up to their table. "It seems my shot burned out the android's memory, along with its vital functions—and, of course, the program with it."

"Not a huge surprise." Rod nodded. "I mean, the program is the most vital function."

"Precisely." Shacklar laid his hand on a chair. "May I join you?"

"Aye, an't please thee," Gwen said.

Rod cast a stern glance at her.

Shacklar pulled out the chair and sat. "Mind you, I'm not apologizing. The monster had to be stopped, stopped instantly—and there was only one way to do it. We're fortunate that the controlling computer was located in its skull, where I placed my first shot."

"Not just 'fortunate.'" Rod smiled. "You were pretty sure that's where it would be, weren't you?"

Shacklar grinned. "Teleology generally wins out. If we make a machine in our own form, we put the computer in the head, simply because that's where our brains are, even though there's more room in the torso. Which, of course, is where my second shot would have gone."

"But, fortunately, it wasn't needed." Rod smiled. "Mind you, General, I'm glad you did it—very glad, considering it was me the blasted thing was trying to kill."

Shacklar acknowledged his support with a nod and a smile. "But I'm afraid we'll never be able to tell what the program was exactly. And, of course, there will be no means of guessing who programmed it, or why."

Rod shrugged. "We can speculate."

"True." Shacklar's smile intensified. "We can always speculate—but we ought to remember that we're merely conjecturing."

"Naetheless," Gwen reminded them, "we are proven innocent."

"Oh, quite true," said the General. "There's absolutely no question of that. And my problem, that of pacifying the Wolmen, is nicely solved."

"Yeah." Yorick grinned. "As soon as the Major showed them what was inside Hwun's skull, they didn't have any trouble believing the robot committed the murder."

Shacklar nodded. "And I can turn the 'dead' android over to the Wolmen—which I have done—so that, if they have any doubts at all, they can take it apart themselves, to see that it really is only a machine."

"Which they will do, of course." Cholly came up behind them and reached across shoulders to set new mugs of ale down for everyone. "And just think how much they'll learn about cybernetics!"

"Oh, I did." Shacklar contemplated his mug with a smile. "Moreover, by having 'slain' the android myself, I seem to have become something of a celebrity among the Wolmen."

Yorick grinned. "'Demon-killer,' huh?"

Shacklar nodded.

"Then you've got it all." Rod set his palms down on the table. "Your Wolmar Federation—the prototype for your government of colonists and Wolmen, coming together in two separate bodies to decide a common problem."

Shacklar looked up, surprised. "Very perceptive, really, Mr. Gallowglass. Do you do this sort of thing yourself?"

Rod opened his mouth, but Gwen answered. "He hath occasion for awareness of it. Then he hath guessed aright?"

"Indeed," Shacklar answered. "In fact, I've had the first draft of the Constitution sitting in my files for several years, waiting for the right moment."

"Which we have managed to trigger for you," Rod inferred.

The General nodded. "Copies are currently en route to each of the four Wolman tribes, and the officers and rankers of our Parliament."

"And with your new status," Yorick pointed out, "you don't have to worry too much about whether or not the Wolmen will accept the new Constitution."

Shacklar smiled. "I do seem to have gained an impressive amount of credibility with them, yes."

"He's a demigod," Yorick explained.

"Certainly." Cholly grinned. "It makes the Union all the tighter, to have the whole thing both triggered and solved by somebody who's neither Wolman nor colonist."

Rod inclined his head. "We thank you."

Chornoi glared. "How could you know whether or not she does?"

Rod just stared, but Gwen said, "Be sure, he doth."

Chornoi rounded on her. "Then how come you don't know what he thinks?"

"I do." Gwen shrugged. "In this instance, he spoke first."

"I just wish," Rod went on quickly, "that I knew whether or not the nasty who programmed the robot was trying to sabotage the General-Governor's budding republic, or to assassinate Gwen and myself."

"Why not both?" Yorick spread his hands.

Chornoi nodded. "Does it really matter?"

"Well, kind of. If we knew which, we might be able to figure out why."

"A point," the General admitted. "However, I think we'd best stay with the pragmatic aspect of the situation. No matter what their ultimate goal was, old boy, I daresay someone is attempting to kill you."

"I… would… say that was a reasonable guess." Rod gazed into Gwen's eyes as he nodded slowly.

"Therefore," the General said, "it behooves us to get you off-planet as quickly as possible, before your would-be assassins create an incident that does rip Wolmar apart."

Rod looked up, with a sour smile. "To our mutual benefit, eh?"

"Let us say, a point of intersection between our areas of interest."

"Well, no offense, General, but we'd love to leave. Any ideas how to escape from a prison planet?"

"Ah, but we're no longer a prison." Shacklar held up a forefinger. "When the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra cut us off from the central government, we became an independent entity by default. Of course, I do understand that I have some genuine homicidal maniacs living here, and I wouldn't loose them on the galaxy—nor any of my sado-masochists." He shivered, took a deep breath. "Nor any of the truly dedicated thieves. Still, you must understand that we do have some export trade in the raw materials for Pharmaceuticals…"

"He's talking about pipeweed," Cholly explained.

"Quite. And we've discovered that we can actually make a small profit, trading with other outlying planets."

"Enough to exchange for the few imports you really need?"

Shacklar nodded. "Our main markets are Haskerville and Otranto."

"Otranto?" Rod frowned. "That's a resort planet!" It still had that reputation in Rod's time, five hundred years later. Then his eyes widened. "Oh. That kind of pharmaceutical."

"No, not really." Shacklar smiled. "It's simply that a great many ships berth at Otranto, with pleasure-seekers from all over the Terran Sphere. They also carry a bit of cargo, especially if it's low-bulk—so one of the pharmaceutical companies operates a factory there, bringing in raw materials from several of the outlying planets, extracting their essential chemicals, and shipping them on to the central planets for further processing and distribution. Thus we've managed to maintain some trade."

"The rejects have managed to stay civilized in spite of the in-group, eh?" Rod couldn't help smiling.

"If you must put it in the vulgar cant," Shacklar sighed. "In fact, it was one of the freighters that brought us word of the PEST coup."

Rod suddenly realized where the conversation was heading. "There wouldn't happen to be a freighter in port right now, would there?"

Shacklar nodded. "On our moon. You must understand that due to our genesis as a prison planet, it can be quite difficult to go from our spaceport to our moon. In fact, there are some very elaborate security procedures left over from the PEST days, which I've seen no reason to relax. However, since I've no records of any of you three being criminals, I've no reason to detain you."

"And every reason to help us move on, huh?"

"Thou wilt assist us in our travels, then?" Gwen asked.

"I shall be delighted." Shacklar gravely bowed his head.

Rod held his breath, screwed up his courage, and took a chance. "Of course, we couldn't agree to go without our guide."

Yorick looked surprised, then grinned. "Yeah. We think we're gonna need her expertise, no matter where we go."

Shacklar gave Chornoi a long, assessing gaze. Slowly, he nodded. "Given her history, I don't believe she should have been with us to begin with."

Hope flared in Chornoi's eyes.

"I certainly see no reason to detain you further, mademoiselle." Shacklar inclined his head with grave courtesy. "And to be certain no other officials misunderstand, I'll equip you with an official pardon."

Rod sat back with a sigh of relief. "General, your cooperation is amazing." He frowned at a sudden thought. "But there is the little matter of the fare. I'm afraid we don't have enough money for the tickets."

Yorick started to say something, but Shacklar was already gazing off into space and nodding. "I'm certain that could be managed. As I say, we do have something of a trade balance. I believe the Bank of Wolmar will prove willing to advance funds for the next leg of your journey."

"Our greatest thanks." Gwen's eyes sparkled.

The General held his eyes on her for a few moments. He may have been always calm and cool, but he wasn't immune.

Personally, Rod was amazed at just how anxious Shacklar was to be rid of them.