Slaves of The Klau

same is true.'

Barch grinned. 'That's a point of difference between us. We grow our food and build our space-ships. You grow your ships and build your food.'

Komeitk Lelianr said listlessly, 'It's easier to grow ships than to build them. When you become proficient in spaceship design you will recognize the advantages.'

'Well, cabbages, space-ships, Lenape aside, there are other ways of escape.'

'How?' She laughed shortly. 'You know nothing of Magarak. You cannot imagine it. It's not a matter of killing a guard, jumping a fence and running.'

'I didn't say I'd succeed. I said I'd try.'

She smiled. 'Yes. The dynamic thrust of your race.'

Barch looked at her with near-dislike. 'Call it anything you want. Maybe when a race gets old like yours, it gets stale, sour.'

'Perhaps.' She stretched out her legs, her arms. After a moment she turned her head, looked at him with what seemed new curiosity. 'Your optimism is stimulating, in any event.'

Barch grinned. Ages ago, Claude Darran had spoken of Barch's capacity for optimism in different terms.

As if following his thoughts, Komeitk Lelianr murmured, 'What strange life-lines we weave through the cosmic gel. Three days ago…'

For the first time, Barch saw tears in her eyes.

Time passed.

Without warning, the cell burst open. White light dazzled their eyes; there was a wave of sound, a tumble of black shapes. The white light cut off, the walls were whole. The cell suddenly seemed full of ill-smelling flesh.

Barch pressed back against the wall. There were eight newcomers, six men, two women: squat white creatures with moist bulldog faces. They wore thread-bare gray smocks, leather stockings, shoes like blobs of yellow gum.

Komeitk Lelianr said tonelessly, 'Modoks. I thought it strange the hold was given to us alone.'

Warily Barch watched the sight. Their faces showed no emotion, no expression. There was a hoarse conversation, then dead silence while all of them inspected Barch and Komeitk Lelianr.

Komeitk Lelianr said with a tinge of interest in her voice, 'I would fit them approximately at 14-90, by the Epignotic Cultural Calculation. Notice the cloth of their garments; durable, shaped rather than woven; their shoes, molded permanently to their feet. These must be outdoor serfs, in the service of a Technics Lord.'

Barch made a non-committal sound.

'Not an uncommon pattern around the universe,' she went on in a monotone. 'Their lot will change little for better or worse.'

Barch muttered, 'I wonder how much longer we'll be in this hold.'

'Are you anxious for Magarak?'

'No, but I don't like the smell here.'

'You might sometime wish yourself back in this cell.'

'Do you think they'll separate us?'

'Certainly,' she said in a flat voice. 'First the slaves are graded at rough intellectual levels; they must pass through a hall filled with traps, pitfalls, obstacles, unpleasant sensations, and the like, which they avoid according to their intelligence. After this first division, the lower grades are classified by physique, agility, dexterity.' She looked across the cell. 'These serfs will probably go out to the mud-flats along Xolboar Sea, a great reclamation project, which uses up thousands of labor-units a year.'

'And how about us?'

'A thousand possibilities.'

Barch awoke to a sound of harsh voices. He crouched instinctively, slowly relaxed. Two of the blank-faced serfs were fighting, clawing clumsily at each other's faces. The remaining men and the women watched critically.

'Disgusting animals,' said Komeitk Lelianr.

One of the contestants suddenly ceased to fight. The other put his legs against the square back, jerked back at the head. The eyes stared up, the neck snapped. There came a sudden raucous babble.

'What are they fighting about?' Barch asked in bewilderment.

'Impossible to say.'

'Look!'

The two women were slapping at the man who had conquered, stolidly without anger. At last he threw up his hands as if in defeat, crossed to a man who had been watching, caught him by the neck, smashed his head against the wall until the skull became like jelly. The women spoke on angrily for a few moments, then appeared to lose interest. No one heeded the limp bodies. There were a few dark glances cast toward Barch and Komeitk Lelianr, one or two monosyllables, then silence.

Barch said speculatively, 'I wonder what would happen…' He looked thoughtfully at Komeitk Lelianr. 'Off hand, would you say that these creatures will be well-treated on Magarak?'

She examined him curiously. 'I have no idea. We know very little of Magarak. I assume that they are not as strictly supervised as the technical workers.'

'Suppose the Klau found a body in your clothes and a body in mine…'

Komeitk Lelianr shuddered. 'You want me to wear those clothes?'

'We have nothing to lose, perhaps something to gain.'

She shook her head. 'But I see no reason-'

'If we get sent out to those mud-flats, we go out together!'

'Oh,' said Komeitk Lelianr in sudden enlightenment. 'The dynamic attitude, this tinkering with destiny…'

'Yes,' said Barch grimly. 'If I couldn't be doing something, I might as well throw in the sponge. Are you game?'

She shrugged. 'It makes no difference.'

Barch flushed. 'If you'd rather go it alone, say so.'

'No, Roy. I don't object to you personally.'

'Thanks,' growled Barch.

She smiled. 'Maybe our friends won't like us undressing their dead.'

'We'll soon see…'

He pushed himself over to the nearest body, and with a challenging survey of the six white faces, began to jerk the gray garment loose.

There was an undertone of muttering. Black eyes became beady and thoughtful. No one stirred. Underneath the jacket was a skin-tight coverall of matted fiber. 'This is the smallest,' said Barch. 'Let's have your clothes.'

Komeitk Lelianr slipped out of the white and black harlequin costume, climbed gingerly into the black smock.

Barch stripped the second corpse down to the gray matted undersuit, pulled off his coat and trousers. Closing his nostrils to the sour odor of the garment, he pulled it over his head.

There was motion along the wall. Barch looked up sharply. One of the men was feeling the material of his coat. My good gray flannel, thought Barch. He jerked it away, started to pull it on the corpse.

Now there were mutters. The older of the women made a furious babbling sound; the other made a gesture with stiff fingers against her lips. Barch ignored the noise, buttoned the coat, began to pull the legs into the trousers. The legs were too short; the cuffs dragged ridiculously over the yellow blobs of wax or resin that covered the dead man's feet.

From the corner of his eye Barch saw Komeitk Lelianr deftly thrusting the second body into her black and white costume. He turned, critically inspected her gleaming silver hair. 'You don't make a very good peasant.'

He looked around the cell. One of the Modoks wore a loose conical cap. Barch pushed himself forward, reached out, took the cap. The man half-heartedly clutched for the cap, then backed away, eyes staring with frantic alarm.

The women babbled in approval.

Barch yanked the cap down on Komeitk Lelianr's hair. 'There,' he said, inspecting her, 'that's a little better.' He