Her anger shattered to leave a bleak chill as she suddenly became aware of the circle of watching faces, the silence which, too quickly, broke into a jumble of sound. Her coldness emphasized the realization that, to Dumarest, the insult had been devoid of meaning. In the world he knew the main ethic was to survive and to do so at any cost. And all were entitled to their pride; the woman who sold her flesh as much as the man who fought to entertain.

Different worlds, she thought dully, and how could she hope to understand his? Dumarest had killed, she was certain of it as she was in the manner it had been done. How had it felt to stand in a ring facing an armed man, nostrils clogged with the stench of oil and sweat and blood? She would never know, could never know; her knowledge stemmed from books and not from the acid of living experience.

"Myra?" A man was at her side. "Trouble?"

Moultrie, big and tall and comforting in his strength, hovered now beside her in protective concern. They had glided together and he was proud of his physique, the body which gave him the confidence to glare at Dumarest, to attack him if she gave the word.

"No trouble, Roy. Just a little difference of opinion." She smiled as she touched his arm and wondered at her hesitation. Had she wanted them to fight? For Dumarest to be humiliated? If so the moment belonged to the past. "No trouble," she said again. "But thank you for your concern, Roy."

"If you're sure?"

"I'm sure." She smiled again. "Everything's fine."

He accepted the statement with obvious reluctance, and Dumarest guessed that Moultrie had wanted to press the matter. For his own aggrandizement? To gain Myra's respect? Or had someone put him up to it?

"I'll take your word for it, Myra. But you-" he glared at Dumarest. "I suggest you watch your tongue. A guest should have better manners."

If he hoped for an answer he was disappointed.

"Roy!" Jussara called from the far side of the room. "Bring Myra over here-I've a drink waiting."

"Coming!"

He led her away before she could object, leaving Dumarest standing alone.

The music changed; turning into a susurration of thrumming chords which faded to return like the pulse of waves on a shore. The stroboscopic flashes died to be replaced by a nacreous glow in which decorations shone with sickly fluorescence; leprous greens and purples beside scabrous reds and blues. The colors of blood and pus and gangrene. Of hurt and decay and disease.

Dumarest wondered at the motivation of the man who had created the setting.

"Madness," said a voice. "Insanity and spite and an infantile desire to shock. It's getting rather tedious." The speaker was small, round, his sparse hair combed in a fan over a balding head. He held a drink in each hand and, smiling, offered one to Dumarest. "It's safe," he said. "From a private stock. Only a fool would trust what Levercherk provides at one of his parties."

Dumarest accepted the drink.

"I'm not a telepath," said the man. "I can't read your thoughts so you don't have to worry. It's just that your expression was obvious." He narrowed his eyes. "Did I offend you?"

"No." Dumarest took a cautious sip of his drink. It was fine brandy. "Are you a reader?"

"What?" The man frowned then smiled as he gathered Dumarest's meaning. "No. I lack that talent. To read a person from body signals and muscular alterations is a rare ability. But it required no genius to guess what you must have thought of this stupidity. Bones," he snorted. "Skulls. Masks and the rest of it. Is life so boring we yearn for its termination? Only the young can afford such mockery." He drained his glass. "Ragin," he said. "Carl Ragin. I teach at dyne."

"Then you know Myra Favre?"

"Of course. And I know about you, Earl. A fighter, right? A teacher of the subtle means of destruction. A man who hopes to start a class in martial arts. You will forgive my bluntness, but I wonder at Myra even entertaining the idea."

"She's crazed," said a newcomer. "As mad as Levercherk but in a different way. Love, perhaps? It is known to steal away the intelligence." He stared at Dumarest. "Are you the cause?"

Ragin said, quietly, "Steady Dorf."

"If so she is to be pitied." Dorf, young, aggressive, confident of the power his status gave him, ignored the older man. "She could have given Moultrie his head. Well, if he cannot cleanse this place of the scum which has somehow crawled in to soil it, then I can."

"Dorf!"

"You side with him, Carl?" The young man made no attempt to mask his contempt. "Such strange company for a man of academic standing to keep." Then, to Dumarest. "I assume you will be leaving now."

Dumarest looked at the glass in his hand, the brandy it contained. A weapon as was the knife in his boot but to use either would be to make a mistake. These people would have nothing but contempt for a man who argued with his muscles. Moultrie would have been forgiven both for his status and his protection to a member of the faculty had it come to physical combat. Now, if he should accept Dorf's challenge, he could destroy any chance he had of gaining the information he wanted.

He looked up, conscious of watching eyes, the tension coiled in the air.

"You are courteous," he said to Dorf. "And I thank you for the opportunity to demonstrate the skills I hope to teach. I drink to your continued good health."

As he lifted the glass someone chuckled, an expression of mirth quickly silenced, but it was enough to tell Dumarest his guess had been right. Dorf was testing him, trying to make him display anger, a fighting rage. He was unaware of the danger he stood in, the risk he ran.

Now he said, "You must be as mad as the rest. What do you mean-a demonstration? Are you going to kill me to close my mouth? To avenge some imagined slight to your pride? To prove the superiority of brawn over brain? Is that all you have to offer?"

"No." Dumarest lowered the glass, feeling the burn of brandy in his mouth. "Now let me ask you a question. You take people, youths, men, women and girls of all kinds, and you teach them and give them a paper saying they have reached a certain standard and then send them away to live as best they might. But what good are your degrees if they need to survive on worlds hostile to learning? On worlds which have no place for the skills they possess?"

"You claim to be able to give them the ability to survive?"

"I teach martial arts."

"Warfare." Dorf shook his head. "The trick of murder."

"No!" Dumarest was sharp. "I talk of art not assassination. Of protection not persecution."

"Protection?" Dorf looked around, enjoying his moment of triumph. "Words. What the hell could you do if I came at you with a gun?"

"Came at me?" Dumarest shrugged, it was his turn to act the academic. "Exactly what do you mean? If you came running toward me carrying a gun? If you wanted to hit me with one? If you wanted to give me one? How can I answer unless you are precise?"

"I mean this!" Dorf snatched a roll from a plate; bread fashioned in the shape of a bone, his fingers closing around it as he swung to point it at Dumarest as if it were a gun. "Now, tell-"

He broke off, staggering back to hit the edge of a table, to fall in a shower of comestibles, as Dumarest, taking two steps forward, snatched the roll from his hand as he sent the heel of his other palm up and against Dorf's jaw. A blow hard enough to shock, to throw the other off-balance, but restrained enough to do no damage other than minor bruising.

"I'd do that." Dumarest threw aside the broken crust. "And that is one lesson you may have without cost: never give your opponent the luxury of choice. If he has a gun pointed at you then assume he intends to use it. Act as if he will and act without delay. Of course," he added, dryly, "it's best never to get into that position in the first place."