"Earl?" Lenz was at his side, jug lifted. "More wine?"

"A little."

"Let me fill it to the brim." The man acted even as he spoke. "Of all here you deserve it most."

"Appreciate it, maybe."

"That too and I wish I could give you a cargo of it but I was thinking of the boy. Marl-well he can't hold his drink and says more than he should. Tomorrow he'll regret it and apologize." Pausing, Lenz added, "I hear you'll be leaving us tomorrow."

"Yes."

"A pity. You fit in well and you'll be missed. If you should change your mind or want to return you're welcome to stay as my guest for as long as you want."

"Thank you," said Dumarest. "I'll remember that."

"Just don't forget it." Lenz stared at the jug in his hand, blinked then thrust it forward. "Take it," he urged. "There could be someone you'd like to share a farewell drink with. A woman, perhaps." He swayed, more affected by the wine than he realized, his words beginning to slur. "There're quite a few who'd like to take you to bed if you were to tap on their windows. Marry you too if you've a mind to settle down. A man needs to get himself married. I-" He broke off and rubbed at his face. "Odd. I feel funny. I guess I need some air."

They all needed air. That in the cellar had grown foul, the flames of the candles burning low as they fought to dispel the gloom. Taking the jug, Dumarest headed for the stairs.

"I'll leave the door open," he said. "Have a good time."

The door was thick, well-fitting, forming an airtight seal. It yielded to his weight and Dumarest passed through into the house. He paused, sniffing, seeing lights move beyond the windows flanking the heavy door leading to the street. Heading toward it he kicked something soft and, stooping, found a middle-aged woman lying unconscious on the floor. Lenz's wife lying with her mouth open and breathing in a stertorous rasp. Dumarest sniffed at her lips then rose and moved softly toward the windows.

Looking outside, his face took on the pitiless ferocity of the beast he had hunted and killed.

The lights were close, portable beams held by individuals, a floodlight throwing brilliance from a low-drifting raft holding supervising figures. As he watched, a door was burned open and shapes moved to search inside the house. A moment and they reappeared bearing limp figures which they heaved into the raft. Items of choice selected by those who knew their trade.

Slavers at work.

They had come under cover of darkness, traveling low so as to avoid detection against the sky. Once they had reached the village, gas had done its work; invisible, insidious vapor which had covered the area to stun and eliminate all resistance. A compound quick to act and quick to disperse- only those in the cellar could have escaped its affect.

Only the handful of near-drunken men could offer any form of resistance.

It wasn't enough.

Dumarest thought about it as he watched from the darkened room, assessing chances even as he recognized limitations. They needed guns but aside from those used in the hunt and now safely locked away none were to be found in the village. A peace-loving community had no use for tools designed to kill. But there were other things; pitchforks, flails, scythes-yet even the crudest weapon needed a determined man behind it if it was to be any use. Arthen would fight for Michelle but to fight was not enough. He had to win. And would Marl fight? Hainan? Could they if they wanted? Did they know how?

And, even if they did, how effective would they be in their present condition?

Time! If he could only gain time!

Those gassed would recover and when they did the odds would be against the slavers. Delay them long enough and the operation would have to be abandoned. Kill enough of the slavers and the rest would withdraw-there was no profit in getting killed. But one man against so many?

"Lena?" The voice was a petulant whisper. "Where are you, woman? Why is the house so dark?" Lenz rising like a ghost from the cellar, confused, unaware of the passage of time. He swore as he stumbled and fell. "Lena?"

He reared as Dumarest grabbed him, fighting against the hand clamped over his mouth, relaxing as he recognized the voice at his ear.

"Listen," said Dumarest softly. "Don't move, just listen."

He explained the situation, felt the man he was holding convulse with incredulous shock, and eased his grip only when certain there would be no noisy arguments or protestations.

Lenz, abruptly cold sober, said, "What can we do, Earl?"

"That's up to you. You've a choice but I'm not going to make it for you. You can hide, yield or fight."

"Give up? Never!"

"Then stay in the cellar and pray you aren't found or get out and do what damage you can." Dumarest glanced at the window as the sound of breaking wood came from lower down the street. "They're moving closer. You'd better make up your mind."

"If we hit their rafts would that do it?"

"It could."

"The guards?"

"Hit them too if you can."

"And you, Earl?" Then, as Dumarest remained silent, Lenz added, "I've no right to ask that you help us and I know it, but I wish you would. We could use someone who knows what to do. Advice, even-can't you give us that?"

"You don't need advice," said Dumarest. "You need guts. Just think of what is going to happen to Michelle if those slavers make off with her. Your daughter and the others like her. Your young men and wives if they're strong and healthy enough. You know what it's like in a mine? In an undersea installation? Set to till fields in the middle of nowhere with a pint of water a day as the only ration in a temperature hot enough to cook eggs? Slaves are cheap. Living machines to be used and thrown aside when old or ill. On some worlds they go to feed animals when their time is done. Think of it, Lenz. You work like a dog all your life then get thrown to a beast as a reward."

"I'd die first!"

"Maybe."

"I mean it, Earl!"

"So you mean it. So mean it now. Die if you have to but take a few of those bastards with you. Get close and use a knife if there's no other way. Aim for the guts and rip upward. What the hell can you lose?"

A crash sounded close before the man could answer. Dumarest stepped to the window, looked at the lights, the shapes outside, returned to join Lenz.

"They're close," he whispered. "Decide what you're going to do and get on with it. If you choose to hide, fasten the cellar door in some way. If to run, get moving right away. Get those men up and out of here. Leave by the rear, keep apart, keep silent. Even if they see you they may not bother to run you down but they won't spot you if you're careful. As far as they're concerned everyone is unconscious and waiting collection."

"Run," said Lenz. "Who said anything about running? I mean to fight."

"Maybe."

"To fight, Earl." Lenz looked at Dumarest, his eyes gleaming with reflected light as a beam hit the window to be diffused and sent glowing about the room. "Even if I fight alone. It's my daughter, remember."

"I haven't forgotten. Make sure Arthen doesn't. Hurry now-move!"

Dumarest watched as scrambles came from the cellar, mutters, a stifled curse and once the meaty impact of a fist. Lenz was learning. Peace was a good thing when applied to animals but suicidal when used to tame men who had the heritage of monsters. Force recognized only one effective argument-greater force.

And all Dumarest had was his knife.

He eased in where it rode in his boot, nine inches of honed and polished steel, needle-pointed and razor-edged, the hilt worn to his hand. With it he could cut and slash and stab, but used in that way the weapon was only effective to the reach of his arm. Thrown, it was lost and, even if it hit was a one-time thing only.

His knife and his brain and the speed of his body. Things which had served him before and now must do so again. Basics which, together with luck, were the instruments he must use in order to survive.