Then Ross laughed shortly. All right, sometimes insensitivity could be a defense as it had at the sea gate. Suppose his lack could also be a weapon? He had not been knocked out as the others appeared to be. But for the bad luck of having been captured before the raiders had succumbed, Ross could, perhaps, have been master of this ship by now. He did not laugh now; he smiled sardonically at his own grandiose reaction. No use thinking about what might have been, just file this fact for future reference.
A creaking overhead heralded the opening of the hatch. Light lanced down into the cubby, and a figure swung over and down a side ladder, coming to stand over Ross, feet apart for balancing, accommodating to the swing of the vessel with the ease of long practice.
Thus Ross came face to face with his first representative of the third party in the Hawaikan tangle of power—a Rover.
The seaman was tall, with a heavier development of shoulder and upper arms than the landsmen. Like the guards he wore supple armor, but this had been colored or overlaid with a pearly hue in which other tints wove opaline lines. His head was bare except for a broad, scaled band running from the nape of his neck to the midpoint of his forehead, a band supporting a sharply serrated crest not unlike the erect fin of some Terran fish.
Now as he stood, fists planted on hips, the Rover presented a formidable figure, and Ross recognized in him the air of command. This must be one of the ship’s officers.
Dark eyes surveyed Ross with interest. The light from the deck focused directly across the raider’s shoulder to catch the Terran in its full glare, and Ross fought the need for squinting. But he tried to give back stare for stare, confidence for self-confidence.
On Terra in the past more than one adventurer’s life had been saved simply because he had the will and nerve enough to face his captors without any display of anxiety. Such bravado might not hold here and now, but it was the only weapon Ross had to hand and he used it.
“You—” the Rover broke the silence first, “you are not of the Foanna—” He paused as if waiting an answer—denial or protest. Ross provided neither.
“No, not of the Foanna, nor of the scum of the coast either.” Again a pause.
“So, what manner of fish has come to the net of Torgul?” He called an order aloft. “A rope here! We’ll have this fish and its fellow out—”
Loketh and Ross were jerked up to the outer deck, dumped into the midst of a crowd of seamen. The Hawaikan was left to lie but, at a gesture from the officer, Ross was set on his feet. He could see the nature of his bonds now, a network of dull gray strands, shriveled and stinking, but not giving in the least when he made another try at moving his arms.
“Ho—” The officer grinned. “This fish does not like the net! You have teeth, fish. Use them, slash yourself free.”
A murmur of applause from the crew answered that mild taunt. Ross thought it time for a countermove.
“I see you do not come too close to those teeth.” He used the most defiant words his limited Hawaikan vocabulary offered.
There was a moment of silence, and then the officer clapped his hands together with a sharp explosion of sound.
“You would use your teeth, fish?” he asked and his tone could be a warning.
This was going it blind with a vengeance, but Ross took the next leap in the dark. He had the feeling, which often came to him in tight quarters, that he was being supplied from some hard core of endurance and determination far within him with the right words, the fortunate guess.
“On which one of you?” He drew his lips tight, displaying those same teeth, wondering for one startled moment if he should take the Rover’s query literally.
“Vistur! Vistur!” More than one voice called.
One of the crew took a step or two forward. Like Torgul, he was tall and heavy, his over-long arms well muscled. There were scars on his forearms, the seam of one up his jaw. He looked what he was, a very tough fighting man, one who was judged so by peers as seasoned and dangerous.
“Do you choose to prove your words on Vistur, fish?” Again the officer had a formal note in his question, as if this was all part of some ceremony.
“If he meets with me as he stands—no other weapons.” Ross flashed back.
Now he had another reaction from them. There were some jeers, a sprinkling of threats as to Vistur’s intentions. But Ross caught also the fact that two or three of them had gone silent and were eyeing him in a new and more searching fashion and that Torgul was one of those.
Vistur laughed. “Well said, fish. So shall it be.”
Torgul’s hand came out, palm up, facing Ross. In its hollow was a small object the Terran could not see clearly. A new weapon? Only the officer made no move to touch it to Ross, the hand merely moved in a series of waves in midair. Then the Rover spoke.
“He carries no unlawful magic.”
Vistur nodded. “He’s no Foanna. And what need have I to fear the spells of any coast crawler? I am Vistur!”
Again the yells of his supporters arose in hearty answer. The statement held more complete and quiet confidence than any wordy boast.
“And I am Ross Murdock!” The Terran matched the Rover tone for tone. “But does a fish swim with its fins bound to its sides? Or does Vistur fear a free fish too greatly to face one?”
His taunt brought the result Ross wanted. The ties were cut from behind, to flutter down as withered, useless strings. Ross flexed his arms. Tight as those thongs had been they had not constricted circulation, and he was ready to
