“Why?” I had asked.

“It is slave silk,” he said, “and it bears, still, the scent of a woman.”

“Why should I leave it?” I asked.

“Because, at Klima,” he said, “ men will kill you for it.”

I hid the bit of silk in the crusts, at the edge of one of the low, white plastered buildings.

The man who spoke was T’Zshal, Master of Kennel 804. “You are free to leave Klima whenever you wish,” he said. “None is here held against his will.”

He stood before us.

We sat on the floor of the shed, naked, together. We were tied together by the neck, by a light rope. It would have sufficed, truly, to hold only girls. Yet none of us parted it; none tore it from him.

“I do not jest,” said the man.

We had been four days now at Klima. We had been well watered and adequately fed.

We had been kept in the shade. The rope had been placed on us when we had straggled in from the desert, to keep us together. We were told not to remove it; we did not remove it. Four men, however, had been cut from it. They had died of exposure, from the march to Klima. Thus, in the end, all told, only fifteen had survived the march.

“No,” laughed T’Zshal. “I jest not!”

He wore desert boots, canvas trousers, baggy, a red sash; in the sash was thrust a dagger, curved. He was bare-chested, and hairy; he wore kaffiyeh and agal, though of rep-cloth, the cording, too, of rep-cloth, twisted into narrow cord.

He was bearded. He carried a whip, the “snake,” coiled, symbol of his authority over us. Behind him, armed with scimitars, stood two guards, they, too, bare-chested, in flat rep-cloth turbans. Light entered the kennel from an aperture in the ceiling.

He approached us. Several shrank back. He drew the curved dagger and slashed the light rope from our throats.

“You are free to go,” he said.

He strode to the door of the kennel and thrust it open. Outside we could see the sun on the crusts, the desert beyond.

“Go,” he laughed. “Go!”

Not one of the men moved.

“Ah,” said he, “you choose to remain. That is your choice. Very well, I accept it. But if you remain you must do so on my terms.” He suddenly snapped the whip.

The crack was loud, sharp. “Is that understood?” he asked.

“Yes!” said more than one man, swiftly.

“Kneel!” barked T’Zshal.

We knelt.

“But will you be permitted to remain?” he asked.

Several of the men cast apprehensive glances at one another.

“Perhaps, yes. Perhaps, no,” said T’Zshal. “That decision, you see, is mine.” He coiled the whip. “It is not easy to earn one’s keep at Klima. At Klima the cost of lodging is high. You must earn your right to stay at Klima. You must work hard. You must please me much.” He looked from face to face.

He did not ask if we understood. We did.

“We may, however,” asked Hassan, “leave Klima when we wish?”

T’Zshal regarded him. Clearly he was wondering if Hassan were insane. I smiled.

T’Zshal was puzzled. “Yes,” he said.

“Very well,” said Hassan, noting the point.

“There is little leather at Klima,” said T’Zshal. “There are few water bags.

Those that exist are of one talu. They are guarded.”

Water at Klima is generally carried in narrow buckets, on wooden yokes, with dippers attached, for the slaves. A talu is approximately two gallons. A talu bag is a small bag. It is the sort carried by a nomad herding verr afoot in the vicinity of his camp. Bags that small are seldom carried in caravan, except at the saddles of scouts.

“Is it your intention,” inquired T’Zshal of Hassan, “to purloin several bags, fill them, battling guards, and walk your way out of Klima?”

Even, of course, if one could obtain several such bags, and fill them with water, it did not seem likely that one could carry enough water to find one’s way afoot out of the desert.

Hassan shrugged. “It is a thought,” be said.

“You must think you are strong,” said T’Zshal.

“I have made the march to Klima,” said Hassan.

“We have all made the march to Klima,” said T’Zshal.

We were startled, that he had said this.

“There is none at Klima,” said T’Zshal, “who has not made that march.” He looked at us. “All here,” said he, “my pretties, are slaves of the salt, slaves of the desert. We dig salt for the free; we are fed.”

“Even the salt master?” asked Hassan.

“He, too, long ago, once came naked to Klima said T’Zshal. “We order ourselves by the arrangements of skill and steel. We, slaves, have formed this nation, and administer it, as we see fit. The salt delivered, the outsiders do not disturb us. In our internal affairs we are autonomous.”

“And we?” said Hassan.

“You,” grinned T’Zshal, “are the true slaves, for you are the slaves of slaves.”

He laughed.

“Did you come hooded to Klima?” asked Hassan.

“Yes, as have all, even the salt master himself,” said T’Zshal.

This was disappointing information. Hassan had doubtless had in mind the forcing of a guard, or kennel master, perhaps T’Zshal himself, to guide him from Klima, could he obtain water. As it now turned out, and we had no reason to doubt the kennel master, none at Klima could serve in this capacity.

We knew, generally, Red Rock, the kasbah of the Salt Ubar and such, lay northwest of Klima, but, unless one knows the exact direction, the trails, this information is largely useless. Even in a march of a day one could pass, unknowingly, an oasis in the desert, wandering past it, missing it by as little as two or three pasangs.

Knowledge of the trails is vital.

None at Klima knew the trails. The free, their masters, had seen to this.

Moreover, to protect the secrecy of the salt districts, the trails to them were not openly or publicly marked. This was a precaution to maintain the salt monopolies of the Tahari, as though the desert itself would not have been sufficient in this respect.

T’Zshal smiled, seeming human for the moment, and not kennel master. “None, my pretties,” said he, “knows the way from Klima. There is thus, in the desert, no way from Klima.”

“There is a way,” said Hassan. “It need only be found.”

“Good fortune,” said T’Zshal. With his whip he indicated the opened door of the kennel. “Go,” be said.

“I choose to stay, for the time,” said Hassan.

“My kennel is honored,” said T’Zshal, inclining his head. Hassan, too, bowed his head, in Taharic courtesy acknowledging the compliment.

T’Zshal smiled. “Know this, though,” he said, “that should you leave us our feelings would be injured. that our hospitality be rejected. Few return to Klima. Of those that do, few survive the pits of discipline, and of those who do, it is to dig in the open pits.” He lifted the whip, noting its graceful curve. It was the snake, many fanged, tiny bits of metal braided within the leather. “Klima,” said T’Zshal, slowly, “may seem to you a fierce and terrible place. Perhaps it is. I do not know. I have forgotten any other place. Yet it is not too different, I think, from the world on the other side of the horizon. At Klima, you will find, as in all the world, there are those who bold the whip, and those who dig, and die.” He looked at us. “Here,” he said, “in this kennel, it is I who hold the whip.”

“How,” I asked, “does one become kennel master?”

“Kill me,” said T’Zshal.