"The captain is right."

"But surely, sir, a laser, especially when set for continuous fire, can be more destructive?"

"True, major, but a man can be killed only once. A bullet will do it as well as anything else. If the object of war was simple destruction, we would all be armed with missile launchers."

"But, sir, surely-"

"That will be all, major."

Dumarest sipped again at his wine. The music had fallen to a repetitive beat, bass notes seeming to vibrate the very air, pulsing like the sound of a giant heart. A dancer spun onto the floor, whirling, veils lifting to reveal milky flesh, hair an ebony cloud around the painted face. Another joined her, glistening black, a third as red as flame. Trained litheness merged, parted, met again in a combination of limbs, so that for a moment the three bodies seemed one, to part, to join again in the age-old invitation of all women to all men.

"Beautiful," whispered Zenya. "How could any man resist them? Could you, Earl? If I wasn't here? If they came to you?"

They were marionettes, toys, painted dolls dedicated to their art. He turned from them, busy with his wine.

"Have you ever known a woman like that, Earl? An artiste? You must have. Did she love you? Did you love her? Earl, answer me, I want to know."

He said, "Zenya, do you know what love really is?"

"Tell me, darling."

"It isn't the game you play. For you it is all pleasure, fun, excitement. But real love isn't like that. There is pain in it, and sacrifice, and yearning, and something, perhaps, which you have never known. A caring for another person. A tenderness… I can't put it into words. If you feel it, you know it."

"As you have done, Earl?" She frowned as he made no answer. "Earl?"

She looked at his hand, tight around his wineglass, the set look on his face, the eyes misted with memories. Jealous, she said, "Earl, I'm bored. Let's get out of here."

Branchard was waiting when they returned to the suite. He straightened from where he leaned against a wall, face splitting into a grin as he saw the uniform. Formally he said, "My lord, may I have the pleasure of a few moments of your time?"

The words were for the benefit of the honor guard standing stiffly beside the door. Maintaining the pretense,

Dumarest snapped, "This is irregular, but, as you are here…"

Inside, Branchard glanced around, saw the electronic baffle, and relaxed.

"I tried to get word to you, Earl, but you didn't ring back, so I had to take a chance and come myself." He nodded at Zenya. "The girl took the message."

"What message?" She frowned. "A man rang a few times asking for you to call back. A news service, I understood. Naturally you wouldn't want to be bothered."

"You should have told me," said Dumarest mildly. The delay wasn't important. "Any luck?"

"Some, but you may not like it. The name didn't help, but names can be changed, and the man you're looking for is known here as Amil Kulov."

"You're sure?"

"There's no doubt about it, Earl. The Lammarre details match to the last decimal point. He had an infection shortly after landing and was treated in the city hospital. He also worked for a time in a chemical factory, doing spot checks on sprays and fungicides, and he's on record in their medical section. The thing is, he isn't in the city."

Dumarest frowned. "Where, then? At one of the villages?"

"Not even that. He's one of these crazy guys, you know, always trying to help those who don't really want him to interfere but are too polite to say so. The last known of him was that he was living in the hills among the Ayutha." Branchard poured himself some wine, emptied half the glass in a single swallow. "Nice stuff, Earl. They seem to be treating you well."

"Stick to the point, captain."

"That is it, Earl. You might as well forget the man. The odds are that he's dead by now. Everyone I spoke to reckons that all the social workers who interested themselves in the primitives got the chop when the trouble started. One thing is for sure-if you go looking for him, you'll head smack into trouble."

Nothing was simple. Dumarest said, "Thank you, captain. I'll send money to you at the field."

Chapter Ten

From the head of the column Ven Taykor said, "I've never been a gambling man, Earl, but if I were I'd take odds that none of us will get back alive." His voice was muffled, distorted by the diaphragm of his respirator. "If I were with the Ayutha, I could pick us off one by one and never need to show myself at all."

A gamble impossible to avoid. Pausing, Dumarest glanced back at the column of men. They had been marching since dawn from where the rafts had dropped them, following Taykor as he led them toward the hills. They were tired, hot, and irritable, and showed it. Hand-picked, but poorly trained; there had been no time for that.

He said, "You're a pessimist, Ven. All we want to do is to make contact."

"Let's hope that we don't do it the hard way." Taykor reached up to scratch his face, swore as his fingers met the mask. "Do we have to wear these damn things all the time?"

There was no wind; the leaves of the lofios all around were still, swollen pods taut beneath the sun. They had worn the respirators continuously, field training to get accustomed to the equipment, but the capacity of the tanks was limited.

"We'll take a break," decided Dumarest. "Captain Corm, set guards. Respirators to be worn, no firing on any account unless I order. Lieutenant Paran, report."

He listened as the other relayed details of the situation.

Rafts, heavily armed, riding high at the edge of the hills, men tense to shoot at anything that moved below. More rafts, deeper in, scanning with electronic sensors.

"A party has been spotted moving toward the west, sir. About thirty men, as far as can be determined." His voice hardened. "They could have been responsible for the recent attacks."

"Any other signs of movement?"

"No, sir. That party, sir, do you wish it destroyed?"

"No." Dumarest's voice was harsh. "My orders are plain-no firing for any reason unless I give the command. Any man disobeying will be shot. Our objective is to contact the Ayutha. If we start shooting, they will run."

Run and attack in turn, and the column he commanded was too vulnerable for his liking. As they settled, one of the men complained, "A hell of a thing. Why couldn't we have used rafts to drop us right in the hills? All this walking seems crazy to me."

His companion, more logical, said, "Use your head, man. Suppose you were one of the Ayutha. You could see a raft coming for miles, right? You'd see it land and armed men get out, and then what? I'll tell you, you'd run and get help and set up an ambush. The marshal knows what he's doing."

A blind confidence that Dumarest hoped would be justified. Squatting, crouched over a map, he studied the terrain. They were close to the foothills, where a shallow gully wound into the higher regions, heading, so Ven Taykor had said, to one of the Ayutha settlements. It would be deserted now; even primitives would not have remained massed together to offer an easy target, but equally so, they would have remained scattered in the vicinity. If he could reach the area without being attacked, if they were a little curious and held their fire, if the men behind him would control their nervous tension, it was possible that his mission could be a success.

He said, "Ven, come over here."

Taykor made no reply. Looking up, Dumarest saw him standing beside one of the lofios plants. He had dropped his respirator and was digging with his thumbnails into one of the blooms. He turned, grinning, oil gleaming on his thumbs.

"Here, Earl, come and smell what this is all about."