But the jaws had closed on toughened plastic, not flesh, the material giving protection and winning time. Dumarest darted his hand down to his knife, whipped it from its sheath, thrust it edge upward between the jaws, the metal hard against his boot. Now, if they continued to close, the jaws would bite on edged steel, the blade serving to protect the limb. Before the beast could jerk its head and throw him to the floor Dumarest had slipped the shaft of the spear so as to rest against the knife, one hand on each side of the snout, parted, the left heaving while the right pressed down. Opposed leverage applied to the shaft resting between the jaws, wrenching them apart-if his strength was great enough, if the shaft would hold.

He felt the wood begin to bend, heard the crunch of teeth driving into the yielding material and strain harder, sweat running into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. Shortening his grip he applied the full strength of back and loins, snarling as the teeth dug deeper into the wood. If it broke, if the beast should think to throw him, if the knife should slip and his leg be crushed-it all depended on the shaft, his own determination, his own strength.

The clock chimed and was ignored. The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting, recognizing the precarious balance on which Dumarest's life rested. Then, as the knife fell from between the jaws, the silence was broken by a sigh. A sigh which rose to a shout as the boot was withdrawn from between the clamping teeth, a roar which thundered as, releasing the shaft, Dumarest sprang back, dodging the rush of the sannak, stumbling, recovering as he dived for his knife.

To rise with it in his hand, his only weapon now, the spear shattered, broken.

"Earl!" Ellain rose as she shouted the name she had learned from the plump man. Her trained voice was a shaft of searing brilliance in a turgid darkness. "Earl! My champion! Win, Earl! Win!"

He heard, ignoring the cry as he ignored the others, turning as he faced the beast, jerking back his head to save his eyes from a shower of grit flung toward him by the lashing tail.

A moment in which he glanced upward to see a shimmering flame of scarlet. The glory of hair caught in a vagrant beam and turned into a halo of unforgettable hue. Saw too the face shadowed beneath; the pale, almost translucent skin, the full slash of the generous mouth, the emerald pools of wide-set eyes.

Kalin!

A moment only and then he was facing the sannak again knife poised, boots rasping the grit to gain traction. He saw the creature turn, the jaws gape and darted to one side as the thing charged. A maneuver repeated as he made his final play-to wear the beast down, to wait until it slowed, then to wound it again and again until, dead or hurt, it would give him mastery.

A plan which failed as, jumping to avoid a charge, he felt his foot slip, his ankle turning as he trod on a patch of buried slime. Then came the hammer-like blow of the tail which sent him slamming against the wall. The stars which burst in his eyes, the pain, the endless fall into darkness.

Chapter Four

Waking was a dream in which he rose slowly through layers of ebon chill, counting seconds, waiting for eddy currents to warm his body, electronic stimulus to activate his heart and lungs, drugs to eliminate the agony of returning circulation. A nightmare of traveling low, occupying a cabinet meant for the transportation of beasts, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

He had ridden like that too often, wondering each time if he would wake, welcoming each resurrection as it came.

Dreams. A plethora of faces which swam out of darkness to blur and vanish even as formed. One more stubborn which remained. A ghost with scarlet hair forming an aureole about a familiar face. The lips, the chin, the bottomless pools of the eyes. A sight which had started him, creating the moment of inattention which could have cost him his life.

Had he really seen her?

Could Kalin still be alive?

He turned, muttering, reliving old memories, old pain. Seeing again the woman he had known, the wonderful, beautiful thing she had been. Long gone now, vanished, only the gift she had given him remaining in his mind. The secret stolen from the Cyclan for which they hunted him from world to world. The key which would give them the domination of the galaxy.

"Dumarest!" The voice was dull, muffled. "Earl Dumarest!"

A voice backed by small, familiar sounds; a rustle of garments, of glass tapping against plastic, the soft susuration of a fan circulating air. A touch against his upper lip and acrid odors stung his nostrils.

"Dumarest. Wake up, man. Wake up!"

A command coupled with a reenforcing of his identity; standard practice when reviving a man who had been subjected to shock. Again the odors stung his nostrils, banishing the last shreds of sleep, but it was pleasant to lie and feel the pulse and surge of life. A comfort to stretch and feel the smooth embrace of sheets against his naked skin, the yield of a pneumatic mattress. The voice grew sharp with impatience.

"Can you hear me? Answer if you can. Answer!"

"I can hear you." Dumarest opened his eyes and looked at the face above his own. A young, smooth face, the features thinly precise, the eyes detached, the mouth a little too full but time would eradicate the hint of caring humanity. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"

The eyes blinked. "You are unusual. I would have bet you would have asked where you were."

"I know where I am. On Harge and this is a hospital. How long?"

"A day; an hour for diagnosis and examination, two hours slow time, the rest drug-induced sleep. How do you feel?"

"Hungry." To be expected-the two hours under slow time had accelerated his metabolism so that he had lived days in subjective time. Dumarest looked at his arms, noted the small, near-healed puncture in the hollow of one elbow. The mark left by intravenous feeding. "Glucose?"

"That and saline and a few other things. You had some cracked ribs, extensive bruising, slight concussion, torn muscles and strained ligaments. There is also minor kidney damage. The ribs had been treated with hormone glue to promote rapid healing and the kidney damage has been corrected. Just take things easy for a while and you'll be fine."

"How did I get here?"

"Carried by porters, I guess. The usual method. I only saw you after you'd arrived. Sit up now. Throw your legs over the edge of the bed. Dizzy? Bend your head down between your knees and it will pass. All right now?"

Dumarest nodded as he lifted his head. The nausea still remained in his stomach but the sudden giddiness and vertigo had gone. He looked at the instrument before his eyes.

"Hold steady now," said the doctor. "Just a final check. Look to the right… to the left… up… down… fine! Here!"

From a side table he lifted a container and removed the lid. Taking it Dumarest sipped and recognized the basic food of all spacemen; a compound thick with protein, sickly with glucose, tart with citrus and laced with vitamins. In space a cup was food enough for a day.

"Thanks." He handed back the empty container. "My clothes?"

"In that cabinet."

"My knife?"

"There too." The doctor looked appraisingly at the naked torso, the thin cicatrices of old wounds. "Just remember what I said and take things easy for a while." He took a card from his pocket, made check marks, signed and passed it over. "Take this to the desk in reception before you leave. They'll check you out. Don't forget to do it-the guards can be touchy."

"And the cost?"

The doctor shrugged, "I wouldn't know about that. The desk handles all matters of finance."