Cluster by Piers Anthony

she was looking for a new man, a strong one. Very cunning.
    C le made a half-choked little scream. Flint looked back.
    A Master's saucer was skimming over the field toward them.
    There was no way to outrun it, and there was no concealment here in the field. Their trail through the burl was obvious, and the saucer could crack the speed of sound under full power in the open.
    Ã˜ro's memory was no help; it merely informed him that the saucers were equipped with pain beams that could strike right through foliage, rocks, or any other cover to incapacitate the fugitives instantly, without damaging them. These beams were all-purpose; they did not need to be tuned like the boxes. The Masters had had centuries of experience at this sort of thing.
    The Masters were the very authorities Flint was sent to talk to, but at this point they would dismiss anything he said as the ravings of a rebellious Slave. Probably Q iw had made a report that suggested Øro was mad, because of the overdose of punishment pain. A neat maneuver by the foreman.
    And Flint was increasingly uncertain he wanted to contact the Masters officially. Maybe it would be better to give the Slaves a break. Sphere Sol had abolished slavery as uncivilized centuries ago, and if it aligned with these slaves–
    â€œAre we going to fight, Øro?” C le inquired breathlessly.
    â€œYes!” he snapped, though at the moment he couldn't see how.
    She smiled, though she was obviously terrified. “On A[ th ] they threw rocks.”
    â€œ Rocks ? Against a supersonic saucer?”
    â€œThe Masters thought maybe they were bombs, so they put the shield up, and then they couldn't use the beams.”
    Flint saw it. “Beautiful, C le!” he cried.
    â€œI know it,” she said, patting her fur in place. Slave females were vain about their fur, even as the human girls, no, humans, were about their hair. “Only one problem.”
    Now the saucer was upon them: a bowl-shaped flier large enough to hold two or three Masters. Flint dropped to the ground, scrambling for stones. “What problem?” he demanded, searching desperately underneath the burl vines.
    â€œNo rocks here,” she explained.
    This was a cultivated field. Naturally there were no rocks.
    Still, Flint had had occasion before to consider combating Space age technology with Stone Age technology. He had come to the conclusion that a smart Paleolith could prevail against a stupid spaceman. Could , not would. It depended a lot on the individual circumstance. This particular situation was not what he would have chosen for the test.
    Yet C le had given him the hint. The Masters could be deceived. They tended to underestimate Slaves, then to overreact when surprised. This could be exploited. Maybe.
    A beam stabbed out form the saucer. C le screamed: pain this time, not fear. The beam had crossed her foot. She fell among the vines, rolling, and the beam lost her.
    Flint grabbed a burl berry and ripped it from its plant. It was a green fruit, unripe and hard and solid, and his savage jerk uprooted the parent plant. He hurled it at the saucer, his arm moving in a kind of backhand swing that would have been impossible for a human.
    The berry struck the underside of the craft and bounced off harmlessly.
    Now the beam found him. It touched his arm as he tried to throw again. It was twelve-pain, paralyzing, intolerable! It was as if the bone were splitting open, the flesh turning to ash, the blood boiling and vaporizing right within its conduits. The berry fell from his hand and his arm knotted in utter agony, every one of his six fingers twisting spasmodically. He, too, fell among the vines.
    But these were random beam-tags. It was difficult to keep the bean on target when both sauces and target were moving. When it left, his arm recovered quickly, undamaged. Now he was glad of the Master's design: pain without injury.
    By this time he had more berries, and so did C le. He aimed higher.
    The