Only GriPs gun appeared in his hand this time, and he had the intelligence to be a little chagrined as he let it slip back into the power holster. Fifteen solid minutes of wheedling and arguing reluctantly convinced Meta she should part with her weapon, and it took the two of them an hour more to disarm the boy. It was finally done and Jason poured out mugs of char for his unhappy partners, both of whom clutched swords to solace themselves.

“I know this stuff is terrible,” he said, seeing the shocked expressions

that appeared on their faces when they drank. “You don’t have to learn to like it, but at least teach yourselves to drink it without looking as though you’re being poisoned.”

Except for occasional horrified lOoks at their bare right arms, the Pyrrans forgot the loss of guns while they readied the cainach for the night. Jason unrolled the fur sleeping bags and turned off the heater while they packed the extra weapons away.

“Bedtime,” he announced. “We have to get up at dawn to move to this spot on the chart. There is a small band of nomads going in the direction of what we think is Temuchin’s main camp, and we want to meet them here. Join forces, practice our barbarian skills, and let them bring us into the camp without too much notice being taken of us.”

Jason was up before dawn and had all the off-planet devices sealed into the lockbox before he woke the others. He had left out three selfheating meal packs but he would not let them be opened until the escung had been loaded. It was a clumsy, time-consuming job this first time, and he was relieved that his angry Pyrrans had been disarmed. The skin cover was pulled off the camach and the iron supporting poles were collapsed. These were tied onto the frame of the wheeled travois to act as a support for the rest of the luggage. The sun was well above the horizon and they were sweating, despite the lung-hurting chill air, before they were through loading everything aboard the escung. The moropes were rumbling deep in their chests as they grazed, while the goats were spread out on all sides nibbling the scant grass. Meta looked pointedly at all this eating and Jason got the hint.

“Come and get it,” he said. ‘We can harness up after we eat.” He pulled the opening tab on his pack and steam rose at once from its contents. They broke off the attached plastic spoons and ate in hungry silence.

“Duty calls,” Jason announced, scraping up the last morsel of meat. “Meta, use your knife and dig a nice deep hole to bury these meal packs. I’ll saddle the moropes and harness the one that pulls the escung. Grif, take that basket, there on top, and pick up all the morope chips. We don’t want to waste a natural resource.”

“You want me to what?”

Jason smiled falsely and pointed to the ground near the big herbivores. “Dung. Those things there. We save them and dry them, and that is what we use from now on to heat and cook with.” He swung the nearest saddle onto his back and made believe he did not hear the boy’s answering remark.

They had observed how the nomads handled the big beasts and had had some practice themselves, but it was still difficult. The inoropes

were willing but incredibly stupid, and responded best only to the application of direct force. They were all almost exhausted by the time they moved out, Jason leading the way on one riding morope and Meta on the second. Grif, perched high on the loaded escung, trailed behind, riding backward to keep an eye on the goats. These animals trailed after, grabbing mouthfuls of grass as they went, conditioned to stay close to their owners who supplied the vital water and salt.

By early afternoon they were saddle-sore and weary, when they saw the cloud of dust moving diagonally across their front.

“Just sit quiet and keep your weapons handy,” Jason said, “while I do the talking. Listen to the way they speak this simplified language so that I ter on you’ll be able to do it yourself.”

As they came closer, the dark blobs of moropes could be made out, with the scattered specks of the goat herds behind. Three moropes swung away from the larger group and headed their way at a dead run. Jason held up his hand for his party to halt, then cursed as he threw all of his weight on the reins to bring his hulking mount to a stop. Sensation penetrated its tiny brain and it shuddered to a halt and began instantly to graze. He loosened his knife in its sheath and noticed that Meta’s right hand was unconsciously flexing, reaching for the gun that was not there. The riders thundered up, stopping just before them.

The leader had a dirty black beard and only one eye. The red, raw appearance of the empty socket suggested that the eyeball had been gouged out. He wore a dented metal helm that was crowned with the skull of some long-toothed rodent.

“Who are you, jongleur?” he asked, shifting a spiked mace from one hand to the other. “Where you go?”

“I am Jason, singer of songs, teller of tales, on my way to the camp of Temuchin. Who are you?”

The man grunted and picked at his teeth with one blackened nail.

“Shanin of the rat tribe. What do you say to rats?”

Jason had not the slightest idea what one said to rats, though he could think of a few possibly inappropriate remarks. He noticed now that the others had the same type of skull, rats’ skulls undoubtedly, mounted on their helms. The symbol of their tribe, perhaps, different skulls for different tribes. But he remembered that Oraiel had no such decoration, and that the jongleurs were supposed to stay outside of tribal conflicts.

“I say hello to rats,” he improvised. “Some of my best friends are rats.”

“You fight feud with rats?”

“Never!” Jason answered, offended by the suggestion.

Shanin seemed satisfied and went back to picking his teeth. ‘We go to Temuchin, too,” he said indistinctly around his finger. “I have heard

Temuchin strikes against the mountain weasels so we join him. You ride with us. Sing for me tonight.”

“I hate mountain weasels, too. I’ll sing tonight.”

At a grunted command the three men wheeled and galloped away. That was all there was to it. Jason’s party followed and slowly caught up with the moving column of moropes, swinging in behind them so that their herd of goats did not mix with the others.

“That’s what all the goat leads are for,” Jason said, coughing in the cloud of dust that hung heavy in the air. “As soon as we stop, I want you two to secure all our animals so they can’t get lost in the other herd.”

“Aren’t you planning to help?” Meta asked coldly.

“Much as I would love to, this is a male-oriented, primitive society and that sort of thing just isn’t done. I’ll do my share of the work out of sight in the tent, but not in public.”

It was a short day, which the disguised off-worlders appreciated, because the nomads reached their goal, a desert well, early in the afternoon. Jason, saddle-sore and stiff, slid to the ground and hobbled in small circles to work the circulation back into his numb legs. Meta and Grif were rounding up and tethering the protesting goats, which induced Jason to take a walk around the camp to escape her daggerlike glances. The well interested him: he came to look and stayed to help. Only men and boys were gathered here since there ‘seemed to be a sexual taboo connected with the water. This was understandable, as water was as essential to life as hunting ability in this semiarid desert.

A rock cairn marked the well, which the men removed to disclose a beaten iron cover. This was heavily greased to retard its rusting, though the covering rocks had cut through the grease and streaks of oxidation were beginning to form. When the cover had been lifted aside, one of the men thoroughly greased it again on both sides. The well itself was about a meter in diameter and impressively deep, lined with stones so perfectly cut and set that they locked into place without mortar. They were ancient and much worn about the mouth, grooved by centuries of use. Jason wondered who the original builders had been.