if he will smile when next he sees you?'
Dumarest said flatly, 'He's insane. Are you?'
'Me? Insane?' Zavor's laugh was a titter. 'Now, why should you say that? Because I have pride and want revenge? Because I have reason to hate a stranger who made me look a fool? A common fighter who belongs in the arena like the animal he is?'
'You're hurt,' said Dumarest. 'You should be resting under slowtime. Do it now, and by morning you will be as before.'
'A brave man should not run from the pain of wounds.'
'A brave man doesn't come creeping into a room to wreak vengeance.'
'Are you calling me a coward?'
Dumarest sighed. The man had been drinking, or worse. The eyes were too bright in their purpled sockets, his tones too high. Drugs to kill pain and to speed his metabolism, others to give him courage or to numb his fears. And yet he was not wholly a fool. He had waited until it was late; had his victim been asleep, it would have taken only one quick blow. And he was a scion of the house, an accident of birth which had served to save him once and was doing so again.
He said again, 'Answer me, you scum! Are you calling me a coward?'
'I'm calling you a fool. Get out of here before you get hurt.'
'A challenge? Will you use that knife in your boot?' Zavor edged forward. 'Then reach for it. Drop your hand. Do it, damn you! Do it now!'
He was too confident, which meant that he was better armed than it appeared. A laser, perhaps, or a missile weapon held in or carried close to the left hand, which he kept at his side.
Dumarest said, 'You want to kill me, but you don't want to suffer because of it. If you can claim self-defense, you might be believed. Do you consider your grandfather to be such a fool?'
Zavor smiled, a distortion of his mouth devoid of humor. 'My insane grandfather will believe that you are an assassin that I confronted and killed to save his precious hide. And you don't have to reach for that knife. I can place it in your hand when you are dead.'
'Get out of here!'
Dumarest stepped forward, watching the knife, the left arm, alert for the tiny movements that would herald explosive action. The knife would be used, thrown perhaps as the left hand rose, a diversion to gain a clear field for whatever weapon Zavor carried at his side. And it would be done soon. He was giving the man no chance. He would have to act or retreat.
'Back!' Zavor sprang to the bed, stood wide-legged on the mattress. He sprang again, right hand lifting, the knife a spinning blur as it left his hand.
Dumarest ducked, saw it pass harmlessly overhead, watched as the left hand rose with the expected weapon. A laser adjusted for continuous fire, venting its full charge in a ruby-guided beam of searing destruction, which swept like a scythe toward him.
Flame burst from the carpet, the wall, touching his shoulder, burning the plastic from the protective metal mesh beneath, passing, to hit the door, another wall. Zavor was too eager, using the laser like a cane to slash as a boy would cut air with a stick, moving too fast for careful aim. As he swept the beam backward, Dumarest acted.
There was no time to think; his hand dropped to his boot, rose with his knife, hand and arm sweeping back as the beam moved toward his face, muscles like springs sending the steel forward, to arc through the air, to end at one of the eyes, the hilt jarring against the bone of cheek and forehead.
Zavor fell, twisting, the laser falling, still active, to hit and roll off the edge of the bed and explode in a gush of blasting energy which filled the room with smoke and flame.
Dumarest turned as it fell, catching the blast on his back, feeling the burn of heat, the stench of charred hair as he lunged toward the door. It opened before he reached it, and he saw the startled face of a guard, a staff lifted, aimed, a gout of flame.
Something smashed against the side of his head, and he fell into an endless darkness.
Chapter Four
It was cold, with a thin wind blowing from the north over scrub and barren rock, biting savagely at his near- naked body, the bite reflected by the hunger gnawing at his stomach. High above, against a swollen moon, a shape wheeled, circling, wide wings soundless in the air. The sling was of plaited leather, the pouch made supple by endless chewing, the stone it contained carefully selected as to weight, shape, and size. He rose, the sling circling, whining a little as it cut the air, thong flying as he released the stone at precisely the right moment. Above, the bird jerked and fell, wings fluttering, a mournful cry marking its passage. He caught it as it fell, wringing its neck, sending sharp teeth to bite into skin and sinew to the flesh beneath.
The blood warmed him, the meat filled his stomach, and he stared upward, triumphant. Food was life, and now he would live until it was time to kill again. And kill… and kill… and kill.
The moon splintered into fragments, which became a face.
'I am Dr. Leon Glosarah. Head physician to the house of Aihult. How do you feel?'
Dumarest stared, not answering.
The voice sharpened. 'What is your name?'
'Earth,' said Dumarest. He had been dreaming of his childhood. 'Earth… No. My name is Dumarest. Earl Dumarest.'
'Good.' The man sounded relieved. He was of middle age, his skin smooth, a mesh of tiny lines at the corners of his slanted eyes. 'Count my fingers.' He held up a hand. 'How many do you see?'
'Three.'
'What is the last thing you remember?'
'A man,' said Dumarest slowly. 'A guard, I think. He aimed a staff at me. There was fire, and something hit my head. A bullet?'
'A low-velocity missile which hit you. Just above the right ear. It shattered the bone and impacted the mastoid process. You were rendered immediately unconscious. Tell me again, how many fingers?'
'Two.'
'Look to your left. To your right. Raise your eyes. Move the right foot. The left. Lift both arms and flex your fingers. Good. You seem to be in perfect condition.'
'Was there any doubt?'
The doctor shrugged. 'In cases of head injury, it is always hard to be certain. Fortunately, there was no brain damage. You were burned a little on the back and shoulders, but the protective clothing you wore saved you from extensive injury. The shattered bone has been repaired and the mastoid healed. You have been under slowtime, intravenous feeding and have had regular massage. Please stand up now.'
Dumarest sat upright and felt a momentary nausea. He waited until it had passed, then threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood upright. His body, he noticed, was thin, the fat vanished, leaving only hard skin and muscle.
'How long?'
'Under slowtime? Thirty hours. That's about fifty days actual.' The doctor added, 'Healing time, naturally. Can you walk?'
Dumarest stepped across the room. It was pastel green, windowless, the door set with a judas grille. Aside from hunger he felt normal. A high-protein diet coupled with exercise, and he would be as good as before. It was hard to realize that almost two months of his life had been spent in the cot, his metabolism speeded so that he had lived forty times the normal rate. A long time for wounds to heal when aided by hormone activators.
'There was no hurry,' said the doctor when he mentioned it. 'Chan Parect ordered a complete recovery, and I thought it advisable to taper off the drugs. Your clothes have been repaired. There is basic in that container. Please dress and eat.' He glanced at the watch on his wrist. 'We haven't much time.'
'Time for what?'
'You will see. Now, please do as I say.'
Fresh gray plastic covered the protective mesh, and the basic was as he remembered. A thick liquid laced with vitamins, tart with citric acid, almost solid protein. Standard fare on spaceships, where a cup would supply enough
