"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I cannot go to Turia!" she cried.

"Why not?" I asked.

"I have no veil!" she cried.

I cried out in exasperation, kissed her, turned her about by the shoulders and with a slap, hardly befitting a free woman, started her on the way to Turia.

The dust was now nearing.

I leaped into the saddle and waved to the girl, who had run a few yards and then turned. She waved to me. She was crying.

An arrow swept over my head.

I laughed and wheeled the kaiila and raced from the place, leaving the riders of the ponderous tharlarion far behind.

They circled back to find a girl, free though still clad Kajir, clutching in one hand a piece of gold, waving after a departed enemy, laughing and crying.

When I had returned to the wagon Kamchak's first words to me had been, "I hope you got a good price for her." I smiled.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

I recalled the Plains of Turia. "Yes," I said, "I am well satisfied."

Elizabeth Cardwell, who had been fixing the fire in the wagon, had been startled when I had returned without Dina, but had not dared to ask what had been done with her. Now her eyes were on me, wide with disbelief. "You sold her?" she said, uncomprehendingly. "Sold?"

"You said she had fat ankles," I reminded her.

Elizabeth regarded me with horror. "She was a person" said Elizabeth, "a human person"

"No!" said Kamchak, giving her head a shake. "An ani- mal! A slaver" Then he added, giving her head another shake, "Like yourself!"

Elizabeth looked at him with dismay.

"I think" said Kamchak, "I will sell you."

Elizabeth's face suddenly seemed terrified. She threw a wild, pleading look at me.

Kamchak's words had disturbed me as well.

I think it was then, perhaps the first time since her first coming to the Wagon Peoples, that she fully understood her plight for Kamchak had, on the whole, been kind to her he had not put the Tuchuk ring in her nose, nor had he clothed her Kajir, nor put the brand of the bask horns on her thigh, nor even enclosed her lovely throat with the Turian collar. Now, again, Elizabeth, visibly shaken, ill, realized that she might, should it please Kamchak's whims, be sold or exchanged with the same ease as a saddle or a hunting sleen. She had seen Tenchika sold. Now she assumed that the disappearance of Dina from the wagon was to be similarly explained. She looked at me disbelievingly, shaking her head. Por my part I did not think it would be a good idea to tell her that I had freed Dina. What good would that information do her? It might make her own bondage seem more cruel, or perhaps fill her with foolish hopes that Kamchak, her master, might someday bestow on her the same beautiful gift of freedom. I smiled at the thought. Kamchak, Free a slaver And, I told myself, even if I myself owned Elizabeth, and not Kamchak, I could not free her for what would it be to free her? If she approached Turia she would fall slave to the first patrol that leashed and hooded her; if she tried to stay among the wagons, some young warrior, sensing she was undefended and not of the Peoples, would have his chain on her before nightfall. hand I myself did not intend to stay among the wagons. I had now learned, if the information of He that the golden sphere, doubtless the egg of Priest-Kings, lay in the wagon of Kutaituchik. I must attempt to obtain it and return it to the Sardar. This, I knew, might well cost me my life. No, it was best that Elizabeth Cardwell believe I had callously sold the lovely Dina of Turia. It was best that she understand herself for what she was, a barbarian slave girl in the wagon of Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

"Yes," said Kamchak, "I think I will sell her."

Elizabeth shook with terror and put her head to the rug at Kamchak's feet. "Please," she said, in a whisper, "do not sell me, Master."

"What do you think she would bring?" asked Kamchak. "She is only a barbarian," I said. I did not wish Kamchak to sell her.

"Perhaps I could have her trained" mused Kamchak.

"It would considerably improve her price," I admitted. I also knew a good training would take months, though much can be done with an intelligent girl in only a few weeks. "Would you like to learn," asked Kamchak of the girl, "to wear silk and bells, to speak, to stand, to walk, to dance to drive men mad with the desire to own and master you?" The girl said nothing but shuddered.

"I doubt if you could learn," said Kamchak.

Elizabeth said nothing, her head down.

"You are only a little barbarian," said Kamchak wearily. Then he winked at me. "But," said he, "she is a pretty little barbarian, is she not?"

"Yes," I said, "She is that indeed."

I saw Miss Cardwell's eyes close and her shoulders shake with shame. Her hands then covered her eyes.

I followed Kamchak out of the wagon. Once outside, to my astonishment, he turned to me and said, "You were a fool to free Dina of Turia."

"How do you know I freed her?" I asked.

"I saw you put her on your kaiila and ride toward Turia," he said. "She was not even running beside the kaiila bound." He grinned. "And I know that you liked her that you would not wager for her and," he added, nodding toward the pouch at my belt, "your pouch is no heavier now than when you left."

I laughed.

Kamchak pointed to the pouch. "You should have forty pieces of gold in that pouch," he said. "That much for her at least maybe more because she was skilled in the games of the bole." He chuckled. "A girl such as Dina of Turia is worth more than a kaiila," he said. "And, too," he added, "she was a beauty!" Kamchak laughed. "Albrecht was a fool," he said, "but Tarl Cabot was a bigger one!"

"Perhaps," I admitted.

"Any man who permits himself to care for a slave girl," said Kamchak, "is a fool."

"Perhaps someday," I said, "even Kamchak of the Tuchuks will care for a slave girl."

At this Kamchak threw back his head and roared, and then bent over slapping his knee.

"Then," I said, determinedly, "he may know how it feels." At this Kamchak lost all control over himself and he leaned over backward slapping his thighs with the palms of his hands, laughing as though he were demented. He even reeled about roaring as though he were drunk and slapped the wheel of a neighbor's wagon for a minute or two until his laughter turned into spasmodic gasps and, making strange noises, he wheezingly fought to get a mouthful or two of air under his shaking ribs. I would not have much minded if he had asphyxiated himself on the spot.

"Tomorrow," I said, "you fight on the Plains of a Thou- sand Stakes."

"Yes," he said, "so tonight I will get drunk."

"It would be better," I said, "to get a good night's sleep." "Yes," said Kamchak, "but I am Tuchuk so I will get drunk."

"Very well," I said, "then I, too, shall get drunk." We then spat to determine who would bargain for a bottle of Paga. By starting from the side and turning his head quickly, Kamchak bested me by some eighteen inches. In the light of his skill my own effort seemed depressingly naive, quite simple-minded, unimaginative and straightforward. I had not known about the head-twisting trick. The wily Tuchuk, of course, had had me spit first.

Now this morning we had come to the Plains of a Thou- sand Stakes.

For all his uproarious stomping about the wagon last night, Paga bottle in hand, singing gusty Tuchuk songs, half frightening Miss Cardwell to death, he seemed in good spir- its, looking about, whistling, occasionally pounding a little rhythm on the side of his saddle. I would not tell Miss Cardwell but the rhythm was the drum rhythm of the Chain Dance. I gathered Kamchak had his mind on Aphris of Turia, and was, perilously to my mind, counting his wenches before he had won them.

I do not know if there are, by count, a thousand stakes or not on the Plains of a Thousand Stakes, but I would suppose that there are that many or more. The stakes, flat-topped, each about six and half feet high and about seven or eight inches in diameter, stand in two long lines facing one another in pairs. The two lines are separated by about fifty feet and each stake in a line is separated from the stake on its left and right by about ten yards. The two lines of stakes extended for more than four pasangs across the prairie. One of these lines is closest to the city and the other to the prairies beyond. The stakes had recently been, I observed, brightly painted, each differently, in a delightful array of colors; further, each was trimmed and decorated variously, depend- ing on the whim of the workman, sometimes simply, some- times fancifully, sometimes ornately. The entire aspect was one of color, good cheer, lightheartedness and gaiety. There was something of the sense of carnival in the air. I was forced to remind myself that between these two lines of stakes men would soon fight and die.