Cluster by Piers Anthony Page A

saucer was not an armored flier. It was more like a concave dish, open on top, so that the Master could look out over the fields conveniently in any direction. But this also meant it was vulnerable from any direction, as long as is protective shield was down. If that shield were raised, it would not be able to attack.
    Flint could see the occupant now. It was a lone Master; evidently that was deemed sufficient for the occasion.
    The berries struck the saucer on both underside and upper side. But they did not do any real damage, and only annoyed the occupant. The Master did not raise the shield. Instead the saucer circled low, the pain-beam sweeping about, orienting on Øro. No hysterical reaction here. The Master had full confidence that the fugitives had no bombs; the only concern was to maneuver the craft so as to allow maximum effect of the beam.
    Flint dodged, but the beam caught him again: a swipe across the chest. Instant agony collapsed his lungs, and he began to lose consciousness. As he started to fall, the pain receded. With an effort he recovered his balance. He couldn't take many more of these!
    The saucer was now down almost to his eye level, hovering. The Master was looking over the rim at him: a slender dark shape, hooded against the sun, seemingly featureless. Flint discovered he didn't know what a Master looked like; Øro had never seen one close up, and had averted his eyes whenever a Master was visible.
    The muzzle of the beam projector swung around to lock on Flint. This time the pain would not be transitory; the Master had taken time to be sure of his quarry.
    Flint threw Øro's body to the ground. He scrambled toward the saucer, getting under its edge, using it as a shield against the beam.
    But the Master was no slouch at maneuvering. The saucer dodged aside, dropping even lower. Once more the dread beam searched for him.
    C le rose up on the opposite side and threw a handful of dirt over the saucer. The Master whirled to cover her with the beam. The aim was excellent; she stiffened and fell, her mouth frozen in a soundless scream.
    Flint leaped for the saucer. His fingers caught the rim. The weight of his body jerked it down.
    The Master compensated beautifully. The saucer shot straight up, righting itself—with Flint still hanging.
    In a moment, he knew, he would feel the pain-beam on his fingers. The saucer was now high in the air; the fall would be fatal.
    Flint swung crazily, using Øro's muscles in a way Øro never had. The saucer rocked; the ground far below seemed to tilt. He flexed his torso, thrusting a foot up.
    The pain caught his hands, but now he had a leg hooked inside the center depression. He twisted and rolled, cursing the backward joints that made this activity much more difficult than it would have been in a human body, but he made it up into the bowl of the saucer.
    The beam played over him, a flexing python of agony, but inertia kept him rolling. He crashed into the Master.
    Ã˜ro's memory carried only a dire warning: it was death for any Slave to touch a Master. The very act was unthinkable. But Flint, raised on the free, unruly, primitive Outworld of Sphere Sol, had no such restriction. The beam was off, the projector knocked out of the Master's grasp and lost over the rim of the saucer. Flint reached around the cowled figure and hauled it out of the control well in the center. The creature came up easily; it was paper-light, like a winged insect.
    The saucer veered, angled, and skated down, out of control. Flint held the Master helpless. “How are you at dying?” he inquired.
    The creature's face turned to him. The eyes were faceted, and the mouth parts had mandibles. “You are no Slave!” it said, no trace of fear in the melodious voice.
    Flint plumped it back down into the well. Immediately the craft pulled out of its dive, as the segmented feet resumed operating the controls. The Master seemed completely unshaken.
    Now was Flint's chance to tell