Manhounds of Antares by Alan Burt Akers Page B

minister of state, a high official, and if he had been disgraced and sold as a slave, it might be my duty to return him and thus affect some great design in the political structure of Kregen. Lacking any other clues, I decided it must be Golan.
    Of one thing I could be sure. If it was not Golan then I would be seized by the blue radiance and hurled back into the slave pens tunneled into the caves.
    Then again — if it came to the worst, I might not be. I might be flung back to the Earth of my birth.
    “Listen, Tulema. I mean to go again and this time I mean to break through to freedom. Will you come with me?”
    “I dare not, Dray! You know why — the manhounds . . .”
    “They are most fearsome beasts — no — fearsome men. But I will look out for you.”
    As you will instantly perceive, I was trying to copper-bottom my bet. If by chance Golan was not the target, and Tulema was, then I would be safe.
    “You will, Dray! I think — I believe—”
    Then this rough tough dancing girl from a dopa den turned away, and I saw her smooth shoulder with the dirt marks upon it quivering as she sobbed.
    I felt pity for her — of course I did. But she was just one in exactly the same situation as all of us. I started to work at once. I took her shaking shoulder, and shook it, and her, so that she quivered, and I said: “This Golan, who was once a Pallan. Was he there when you and I first met?”
    “Yes, he was.” She sniffed and sniveled, and I brushed the tears from her eyes.
    “There is no need for tears, Tulema. We will go out together from here, you and I, in safety.”
    She eyed me from under her long lashes where the teardrops trembled. “Lart the Khamorro. Did he?”
    About to say, “He is dead,” I paused. I lied. I said: “I do not know, Tulema. I told you, I was thrown back unwanted.”
    “Oh.”
    That evening after the meal I fixed up with Anko the Guide that he would include me in his party. He looked at me with approval.
    “You look as though you can run.”
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “I can run.”
    The tame slaves were let in and they swept out the refuse and muck. Most of them were sly, inventive, cunning creatures. The old Miglish woman whacked her broom about crossly, swearing at everyone in her vile way, threatening them with all manner of horrendous fates at the hands of Migshaanu the All-Glorious. Tulema squeaked and caught my arm and we moved into another cave.
    I kept my eyes open for any other Khamorros. They would be useful on the hunt if only they would learn to rein and bridle their arrogance and contempt for other people.
    The following sequence of events was much the same as before. Nalgre came with his whip and his customers and guards, and the bunch of slaves who clustered most urgently against the lenken bars were chosen. Anko the Guide gathered his little group about him — fourteen of us — and the barred gates were open.
    I looked about for Tulema.
    She was not visible.
    Golan was about to be herded through. I seized him by the arm intending to haul him back and go find Tulema, for I did not wish to split my options, but a hefty guard seized Golan by the other arm and pulled.
    Golan yelled.
    “Let me go! Let me go, you hairy yetch!”
    The guard hit me and I put my hand up and another guard hit me, and Golan was gone and two guards lay on the floor, unconscious, and then I was bundled out with the rest. At once I shoved my way into the middle of the crowd of slaves blinking in the sunshine. Tulema would have to take her chances, now, and I must not miss Golan. She had evidently allowed her fears to overwhelm her at the end. Anko the Guide looked at me in some surprise as I shuffled along with the slaves.
    Nalgre and his guards were dragging out the two unconscious guards in their leaf-green tunics — their helmets had rolled and were instantly snatched back into the crowd of slaves, as is the slave way with all unattached objects — and were yelling and banging their whips and