dark a spear of light no thicker than Jofre's thumb. It struck the reeling man, then snapped to the left and showed for an instant a face rendered grotesque by a wide, near toothless mouth.
Both of those the ray had touched slumped. The man Jofre had first tackled was already careening down the alleyway, slipping twice and howling as he went.
'My thanks, Night wanderer.' The words were oddly accented and Jofre stiffened. With all his need for caution he had betrayed himself with that battle cry. This other was addressing him by the name given by lowlanders to his kind.
Now the shadow which was the stranger stood away a little from the wall, stumbled, and would have gone down had not Jofre, without thinking, caught at a shoulder to steady him.
'You are hurt?' he demanded.
'I am—bruised—in my self-confidence as well as my flesh, Night wanderer. That there would come a day when such as that could move in on one of the Zoxan clan— alas, one is indeed led to face shame.'
'If you need shelter—' Jofre began. He was not oathed to this stranger but neither could he walk away and leave him to be food for another pack of rats.
'Night wanderer, unless you have some mission of your own, I would welcome company—at least into the outer ways of this festering pit,' the other replied frankly.
His forward move was a lurch and Jofre was again quick to steady him. There was something wrong about the arm the other had half raised to regain his balance; it was short, too short—was this stranger maimed?
Not only was he seeming short of part of an arm but he was plainly limping as they made their way out into the crooked street. The spacers were gone and for the moment there seemed to be no one else nearby.
Jofre turned his head to survey the stranger he was aiding. Only long training kept him from betraying full astonishment. He had heard that other species not akin to his own were star rovers. However, this creature was so far from anything he had ever seen or heard tell of— except there was a faint relationship perhaps to one of the 'demons' of old tales—that he was shaken.
The other more than matched Jofre in height, perhaps being a handsbreadth the taller. His uncovered head was domed and hairless, but about his neck, rising like a great frilled collar, was a fringe of skin which pulsated with color—now a dusky scarlet, though that was fading even as Jofre set eyes on it. The skin of the face and head were scaled, minutely prismatic. In the somewhat forepointed face, which was chinless, a well-marked and toothed lower jaw showed no fullness, the eyes were very large and by this garish light appeared to reflect small points of flame.
The stranger was wearing a spacer's suit monotone in color and with no badges to be seen. He was busy now settling one of those fabled off-world weapons into a holster at his belt. His other arm, that which Jofre still held onto in support, was but half the size of the right one and completely covered with the sleeve of the uniform which was turned back and fastened over it.
Having holstered his weapon, the stranger turned his attention to Jofre.
'Well met, Night wanderer—or do you agree?' Those large eyes seemed to narrow a fraction. The voice had a hissing note which tended to distort the words a fraction.
'Who are you?' Jofre was startled enough to demand, bluntly.
The frill had lost its color, subsiding now to lie about the stranger's narrow shoulders like a small cape collar.
'You mean—what am I? There are no others of my kind on planet now, none that I have heard of. We, too, are wanderers of a sort but circumstances have led me to exceed the reach of my fellow clansmen for a while. I am a Zacathan—my call name Zurzal.'
Zacathan! The Master had spoken once of that race. Old, far older than Jofre's own kind, their history stretched back into time mists so dim that no one now could penetrate them. Not a warrior-producing race, on the contrary they were scholars and students, the keepers of archives, not only of their own kind but of all those others they had contact with throughout their explorations into the pasts of many worlds. There were Zacathans to be found among the First-In scouts, for their particular senses and minds made them excellent observers and explorers. And there were fabled repositories of knowledge for which they were responsible, their long lives (when compared to other races) making them excellent record keepers.
Zacathans occupied a strange niche in the galactic world—serving at times as diplomats, peacemakers. Their neutral status was acknowledged and they were made free of any world they wished to visit.
But to find one in the Stinkhole? That Zurzal wore one of the stun weapons was only prudent for anyone venturing here; but why would he have come in the first place?
'I seek a man—'
Jofre tensed. Was mind reading also one of the arts this lizard man knew? If so, he wanted none of that art to be exercised upon him. He loosed his grip on Zurzal's shoulder.
'No, I did not read your mind, Night wanderer, I merely called upon logic. You, of course, wonder why I am here.' He uttered a low sound which might have been laughter. 'It is no place for a man of peace, that I agree. But sometimes one must overcome a number of obstacles to assure one success.'
There was a silence between them. If the Zacathan waited for some reply, Jofre did not know what he should give him. Was the other hinting that he needed help in his search? If so, he had appealed to the wrong one.
'Master of Learning,' Jofre gave him the honorific he would have given to one of the few scribes who jealously guarded the history of the Shadows. 'I am new come to this place; I know no one herein. You must seek another guide.'
'Are you oathed?' That demand came swiftly and with such force of authority that Jofre found himself replying at once with the truth:
'I am not oathed—the Brothers are no longer mine.'
He was aware of the sharpness of those eyes which stared at him as if the Zacaehan could indeed pry open his skull and sift out some answer.
