Could he have done better?

Even so he should have tried. Should still try-was he to wait and die while thinking of making the attempt?

"No, Gustav! No!" This time it was the woman who had read his thoughts. She reached out and took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her and she did it as if he were a child. "No," she said again. "I've given the orders and you couldn't even if you tried. And I don't want you to try. Haven't I lost enough as it is? Dear God, haven't I lost enough!"

Too much and all that made life a meaningful existence. He must reassure her and give her hope.

"Well find a way," he said. "We can send to other worlds for experts. To Payne and to-" He broke off, looking at the hand she had pressed over his heart. "Kathryn?"

"I've been a fool, Gustav. To have put my hope in a monk and then to be so disappointed when he failed to perform a miracle. Then to come to you and upset you in turn. But there must be no stupid heroics. That is an order. I mustn't lose you, too." She waited until he met her eyes. "I want you to promise. I want you to give me your word."

A moment and then he nodded. "You have it."

"Good." She inhaled and then stepped back away from him again in full emotional control. "Thank you, husband."

"You will stay?"

"I can't." She saw regret in his eyes and hastened to explain. "I've work to be getting on with. A stupid bitch who is too ambitious for her own good needs to be taught a lesson. I want everything arranged."

The pens were washed and clean but for reasons of hygiene not comfort. The same reasoning applied to the floor, the walls, the catwalk on which the slaves were displayed, the block on which they were sold. Only the seats provided for the curious were padded; serious buyers preferred to stand.

Maureen Clairmont had been among them. She was gone now, leaving tight-lipped and with the skin stretched tautly over her cheekbones, realizing just on the edge of ruin the plan which had been devised against her. One only the Matriarch herself could have engineered, as her backers must realize; and, knowing the strength of the displayed opposition, they would be quick to disavow her.

Leaning back in her chair, Kathryn felt the glow of satisfaction of a job well done.

"Twenty males," said the auctioneer. "Assorted planets of origin. Offered for sale by Hylda Vroom. I will allow the usual time for examination."

A man who relished his power over others but one who knew how to be deferential while maintaining his pride. Not an easy thing to do while selling others of his own kind but such work was too demeaning for any woman to contemplate. As the line shuffled from the pens to stand on the catwalk Kathryn leaned forward to study them the better. As the auctioneer had said, they were a motley crew dressed in an assortment of garments. A convenience; why provide fresh clothing when there was no need? And why heat a compartment when clothing would keep the captives warm?

They would have been searched, naturally, and all of value taken. And, equally naturally, some showed the signs of combat.

And yet was that wholly natural?

To Shamarre who attended her Kathryn said, "Isn't gas used during a raid?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Then why are some of those men hurt? Is Hylda so careless as to stacking? Or did she have trouble once in space?"

"Trouble," said Shamarre with relish. "You're looking at the fruit of a couple of raids, my lady. The second proved expensive. Some managed to escape the gas and decided to fight. That one, you see him? The one in gray? I heard that he killed a score on his own."

An exaggeration, it had to be, no man could best a score of women especially if they were armed and alert. Yet there was something about him that attracted her interest. His height for one thing, he was taller than Gustav and far wider across the shoulders, but it wasn't just that. His face held a hard, ruthless determination, his eyes probing the area even as he was urged toward the block. On the side of his head an ugly wound made a patch of red and blue which set off the taut pallor of his face.

She lifted her hand as the auctioneer began his chant.

"One moment. I would like some details as to this man."

"My lady?"

"Details, you fool," snapped Shamarre. "Where was he taken? How did he get hurt?"

"I can answer that." Hilda Vroom, gaudy in her flared and slashed blouse, the bulk of an electronic control box at her waist, thrust herself toward the Matriarch. "He comes from Onorldi-at least that's where we found him. I'll be honest, Abra was a fool. Somehow he and others escaped the gas and she hesitated before taking action. While he provided a distraction the rest managed to get weapons and attacked the rafts. We didn't know the situation and so had to make a run for it." She added bitterly, "We left twenty behind."

"Twenty!" Shamarre blew out her cheeks. "You admit it?"

"Why lie? It wasn't my responsibility. I wasn't in command then. We had him surrounded and then, somehow, everyone was firing at everyone else. But I know for a fact he killed a half a dozen and injured more."

"With a gun?"

"A gun and this." Light glittered from the blade of the knife she pulled from her belt. "I'm keeping it for a souvenir."

Shamarre held out her hand and grunted as she examined the weapon. As she handed it back she said, "I still can't understand how you let him get so many of you."

"He's fast. I was on the raft watching and one second he was standing apparently harmless and the next he'd cut loose." She added defensively, "You don't have to believe me. I don't give a damn if you do or don't. You wanted the facts and I'm giving them to you. That's all."

"Dangerous?"

"Not now." The slaver slapped the box at her waist. "I've got him collared."

Kathryn could see it around his throat, the thick band of flexible links shining with a gilt luster. Too close-fitting to be slipped over the head it would detonate if removed with any other means than the correct key. The device incorporated within would respond to signals sent from the slaver's box and turn nerve and muscle into liquid fire should the man disobey.

For a moment she wondered what it must be like to be rendered so helpless. To be dependent on the slightest whim of another. To live in constant fear of pain and death. To be so much a helpless prisoner. A moment in which to taste a foreign concept and to reject it as being totally inapplicable to her situation. She was a woman and the Matriarch. How could she find any affinity with a man and a slave?

"He's big," murmured Shamarre. "And looks strong enough to earn his keep. Gelded, he'd be safe enough to put over the youngsters."

A hint? Shamarre was rarely subtle but what she said was true enough. Young daughters of the aristocracy needed to be taught and protected, and keeping them in line posed a problem. Older women would intrigue and were not above yielding to passions of their own. Men were men. Slaves, unless of a special kind, could be suborned. Loyalty, she thought bitterly. Always it came to that. How to win it? How to keep it once given?

But, from a slave, at least she could ensure obedience. The box Hylda carried would see to that.

"His name?" She nodded as it was given. "Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. And not a native of Onorldi?"

"I doubt it, my lady."

As she did. This man was no farmer spending his life in devotion to the soil. No herder of beasts. No scrap of living matter adjusting his life to the turn of the seasons. There was a proud arrogance to the lift of his head, a savage independence in his eyes. Things she could appreciate even while deploring them in a slave.

"Have him walk," she commanded. "I want to see him move."

As a slaver turned, she rose to step down toward the catwalk. As the order was given, she halted and looked up to study the taut pallor of the face, the inflamed ugliness of the wound.