A hope which died as, rounding a corner, she saw him standing, smiling before her.

"I hope you bargained well, my dear." He took the tickets from her pouch, the money. "Why didn't you sell your own possessions?"

She had and he knew it, knew too that the money gained had been lost. And now this. But why had he allowed her to stay in the apartment?

The answer lay in his eyes, the curve of his mouth. A cat teasing a mouse, allowing it the pretense of freedom then to strike, to wound, and finally to kill. God, how he must hate her!

She said, "Either call the Guard, Yunus, or let me go. I have things to arrange."

"The Guard?" He shrugged. "What could I tell them? You pledged some trifles on my behalf. A clever move, my dear, to use my name so openly. Did I give you the idea when I mentioned certain items which could have been stolen? If so you are quick to learn." His voice deepened a little, became a feral purr. "And there is so much for you still to learn. To accept the fact that I am your master, for one. That what I wish you will do. That my command will be your desire. Think of it, Ellain. Our life could become so-interesting."

One in which he would no longer trouble to hide the real side of his nature. He would become the pervert, the degenerate and she would be forced to cater to his every whim. To crawl and kiss his feet, the lash which he would use to beat her, the blood dappling her flesh. She had seen such creatures-despicable toys of the Cinque. Yunus wanted her to emulate them.

He said, "Enough for the present. Let us make a short journey. I have some business to attend to and I'm sure you will find it interesting." He turned to signal a cab. As she entered he said, to the driver, "The Exchange."

"No, Yunus!"

"No?" The lift of his eyebrows was sardonic. "Would you prefer me to summon the Guard? On second thoughts I distinctly remember not having given you permission to pledge those items. In which case, once having removed them from the apartment, you became guilty of theft. Now, my dear, shall we go to the Exchange?"

It was a place of whispering voices as dealers worked at their trades, relating lies, promises, bright speculations in figures which held blood, despair, broken lives. A large, vaulted chamber, the floor smooth and set with a pattern of interwoven lines of black against the dull ochre. The walls were painted with abstract murals, points of brilliance flashing with reflected light to give the illusion of moving, watching eyes. Benches set in long array and one end was occupied by a dais furnished with chairs and a long table. A busy place with cabs thronging the broad passages outside and with a constant stream of people coming and going.

Some nodded to Yunus while others, too engrossed in business, failed to see him pass. Words hovered about them like a miasma.

"… for twenty. Initial debt was for five but it climbed. No fault of the debtor-he had an accident and crushed a hand. He's healed now, a good worker and reliable for his wages. Young too. I'll accept nineteen."

And would settle for less. Another voice, this time strained, desperate.

"For God's sake, mister, I only borrowed a couple of thousand! I've repaid ten times that already and now you say I owe as much again. I'm doing my best but how the hell…"

A question repeated from where others stood; couples, small groups, some arguing, others bland, confident of their power. Men who played a game with human lives as counters with no danger to themselves.

"… old but going cheap. On paper he owes twenty-two thousand but we must be realistic. I'll take seven hundred and fifty. A good investment. You could farm him out and get your money back in a few months. From then on it's all profit."

Unless the man died within a few weeks as was more than likely.

Ellain turned away, disgusted, conscious of the fear which prickled her skin. Here was the place where debts were bought and sold and the final product of the system could be seen. A debtor was a free man. He could not be beaten, flogged, tortured but there were other ways of pursuading him to pay. And one sure way of making those who had neglected their obligations try their best.

She watched as they were led on the dais; the weak, the stubborn, the lazy. Those who had tried to beat the system by borrowing to gamble and who had lost. Others made victims through no fault of their own.

The tribunal sat and the formalities began.

"Number 49," droned an attendant. "Has refused to meet his obligations for the past four months. Refuses to work as directed. Has been warned several times. No certified physical disability."

The head of the tribunal, an old man, said, "What have you to say in your defense?"

"I had a sickness in the stomach." Number 49 had a surly, disgruntled voice. "It costs to get treatment so I did without. And they wanted me to work down in the Burrows by a reactor. I've heard what it's like down there. So I refused. But I'll pay-I swear it!"

"Unless you meet your next month's obligation you will be liable for eviction if your creditor so desires. The next time you appear before us you will be evicted without further argument or delay. Next!"

A woman with an ailing child who stammered her excuses and promised to do anything to earn the money if only the court would show mercy. The court obliged. A moronic youth who grinned vacuously and was given another chance. A crippled oldster, obviously incapable of heavy labor, who was given none at all. Others.

Too many others.

Watching, Ellain wondered why they were so meek. Why so humble. They were facing personal extinction so what had they to lose?

What had she?

"Look at them, my dear." Yunus whispered at her side, his voice holding a chilling mirth. "Just remember that, if I wish, you could be there among them. Owned interest, the proof of theft, no prospect of an income-need I say more?"

A statement of his position as it was a revealing of her own. She was as trapped as any standing on the dais; caught under a mountain of debt, prevented from working, unable to pay.

And no one would be willing to pay for her. Yunus was of the Cinque and who would risk his displeasure? And who, of his own kind, would work against him?

"The storm," he murmured again. "So old now. Who could possibly live in it? Poor Dumarest." His voice grew hard, ugly. "He certainly has paid dearly for his pleasure-you slut!"

Chapter Twelve

Before them something cluttered to run and crouch with watchful, wary eyes. A rodent, adapted to its environment, ready to defend itself if attacked. Dumarest ignored it as did the others. Vermin were to be expected among the sludge and garbage which was the unavoidable by-product of any city. In Harge it was collected in the Burrows; a multi-layered complex of thick walls, galleries, artificial caverns containing lakes of decaying sewage. Of necessity the city had to recycle its waste.

But there was more in the place than the workers busy in the utilities, the rodents watching to snatch what they could find. Among the ramps and corridors, the junctions lit with cold, blue light were patches of darkness and shadowed enigma; narrow passages leading to empty spaces once used now long neglected. Areas made obsolete by the use of new, compact equipment, by-passed in lateral expansion, discovered bubbles which could not be fitted into the general plan. A world where floors and walls were slimed, thick with encrustations, mottled with pale fungi emitting a ghostly luminescence. Water seeped from spongy rock or lay in dew-like condensation on naked stone.

A maze reflecting echoes. One which held the soft pad of cautious feet.

Santis had caught the sound. He said, softly, "I get the impression we're being followed. An ambush?"