CHAPTER VIII. I slept little that night. There is a tale told in Delon of the Chagri, where a challenger was left in a room alone, where he was blindfolded and told to await the beginning of the torment. Somewhere in those dark hours of waiting, between the unknown and the unexpected, the hours of telling over to himself the horrors of past Chagri, the torture of anticipation alone became unbearable. A little past noon he collapsed in screams of horror and died raving, unmarred, untouched. Daybreak came slowly, and with the first streamers of light came Dalisa, with the white chalk, maliciously uninvolved, sniffing his way through the shabby poverty of the Great Hall. They took me to a lower dungeon where the slant of the sunlight was less visible. Dalisa said, The sun has risen. I said nothing. Any word may be interpreted as a confession of defeat. I resolved to give them no excuse, but my skin crawled and I had that peculiar, prickling sensation where the hair on my forearms was bristling a ract with tension and fear. Dalisa said to the chalk, His gear was not searched. See that he has swallowed no anesthetic drugs. Briefly I gave her credit for thoroughness. Even while I wondered in a split second why I had not thought of this, drugs could blur consciousness at least, or suspend reality. The white non-human sprang forward and pinioned my arms with one strong, spring-steel forearm. With his other hand he forced my jaws open. I felt the furred fingers at the back of my throat, gagged, struggled briefly and doubled up in uncontrollable retching. Dalisa's poison-berry eyes regarded me levy as I struggled upright, fighting off the dizzy sickness of disgust.  I had been momentarily raging with fury and humiliation. Now I realized that this had been a calculated, careful gesture to make me lose my temper and thus sap my resistance. If she could set me to fighting, if she could make me spend my strength and rage, my own imagination would fight on her side to make me lose control before the end. Swimming in the glare of her eyes, I realized she had never thought for a moment that I had taken any drug. Acting on Corral's hint that I was a Terran, she was taking advantage of the well-known Terran revulsion for the non-human. Blindfold him. Dalisa commanded. Then instantly countermanded that. No. Strip him first. The chock ripped off shirt-cloak, shirt, shoes, breeches, and I had my first triumph when the wheeled claw-marks on my shoulders, worse if possible than those which disfigured my face, were laid bare. The chock screwed up his muzzle in fastidious horror, and Dalisa looked shaken. I could almost read her thoughts. If he endured this, what hope have I to make him cry mercy? Briefly I remembered the months I lay feverish and half-dead waiting for the wounds Raqal had inflicted to heal, those months when I had believed that nothing would ever hurt me again that I had known the worst of all suffering. But I had been younger then. Dalisa had picked up two small, sharp knives. She weighed them, briefly, gesturing to the chock. Without resisting, I let myself be manhandled backward, spread equaled against the wall. Dalisa commanded, drive the knives through his palms to the wall. My hands twitched convulsively, anticipating the slash of steel and my throat closed in spasmodic dread. This was breaking the compact, bound as they were not to inflict physical damage. I opened my lips to protest this breaking of the bond of honour and met her dark, blazing stare, and suddenly the sweat broke out on my forehead. I had placed myself wholly in her hands, and as Raqal had said, they were in no way bound by honour to respect a pledge to a tavern. Then, as my hands clenched into fists, I forced myself to relax. This was a bluff, a mental trick to needle me into breaking the pact and pleading for mercy. I set my lips, spread my palms wide against the wall, and waited impassively. She said in her lillting voice, Take care not to sever the tendons, or his hands would be paralysed, and he may claim we have broken our compact. The points of the steel, razor-sharp, touched my palms, and I felt blood run down my hand before the pain. With an effort that turned my face white, I did not pull away from the point. The knives drove deeper. Dully suggested to the chalk. The knives dropped. Two pinpricks, a quarter of an inch deep, stung in my palm. I had outbluffed her. Had I?  Abruptly, as if the game had wearied her already, she gestured, and I could not hold back a gasp as my arms were hauled up over my head, twisted violently around one another and trust with thin cords that bit deep into the flesh. Then the rough upward pull almost jerked my shoulders from their sockets, and I heard the giant chalk grunt with effort as I was hauled upward until my feet barely on tiptoe touched the floor. Blindfold him, said Dully so languidly, so that he cannot watch the ascent of the sun or its descent or know what is to come. A dark softness muffled my eyes. After a little I heard her steps retreating. My arms wrenched overhead and numbed with the bite of the cords were beginning to hurt badly now. But it wasn't too bad. Surely she did not mean that this should be all. Sternly I controlled my imagination, taking a tight rein on my thoughts. There was only one way to meet this, hanging blind and racked in space my toes barely scrabbling at the floor, and that was to take each thing as it came and not look ahead for an instant. First of all I tried to get my feet under me, and discovered that by arching upwards to my fullest height I could bear my weight on tiptoe and ease a little the dislocating ache in my armpits by slackening the overhead rope. But after a little, a cramping pain began to flare through the arches of my feet and it became impossible to support my weight on tiptoe. I jarred down with violent strain on my wrists and wrenched shoulders again, and for a moment the shooting agony was so intense that I nearly screamed. I thought I heard a soft breath near me. After a little it subsided to a sharp ache, then to a dull ache, and then to the violent cramping again and once more I struggled to get my toes under me. I realized that by allowing my toes barely to touch the floor they had doubled and tripled the pain by the tantalizing hope of, if not momentary relief, at least the alteration of one pain for another. I haven't the faintest idea even now how long I repeated that agonizing cycle, struggle for a toehold on rough stone, scraping my bare feet raw, arch upward with all my strength to release for a few moments the strain on my wrenched shoulders, the momentary illusion of relief as I found my balance and the pressure lightened on my wrists.  I started once to estimate how much time had passed, how many hours had crawled by. Then checked myself for that was imminent madness. But once the process had begun my brain would not abandon and I found myself with compulsive precision counting off the seconds and the minutes in each cycle, stretch upward, release the pressure on the arms, the beginning of pain in the calves and arches and toes, the creeping of pain up the ribs and loins and shoulders, the sudden jarring drop on the arms again. My throat was intolerably dry. Under other circumstances I might have estimated the time by the growing hunger and thirst, but the rough treatment I had received made this impossible. There were other, unmentionable, humiliating pains. After a time, to bolster my flagging courage, I found myself thinking of all the ways it might have been worse. I have heard of a chagrin exposed to the bite of poisonous, not fatal but painfully poisonous insects and to the worrying of the small, gnawing rodents which can be trained to bite and tear, or I might have been branded. I banished the memory with the powerful exorcism, the man in Delon whose anticipation alone of a torture which never came had broken his mind. There was only one way to conquer this, and that was to act as if the present moment was the only one, and never for a moment to forget that the strongest of compacts bound them not to harm me, that the end of this was fixed by sunset. Gradually, however, all such rational thoughts blurred in the semi-delirium of thirst and pain, narrowing to a red blaze of agony across my shoulder blades, I eased up on my toes again, white hot pain blazed through my feet, the rough stone on which my toes sank had been covered with metal, and I smelled scorching flesh jerking up my feet with a wordless snarl of rage and fury hanging in agony by my shoulders alone, and then I lost consciousness, at least for several moments, for when I became aware again through the nightmare of pain, my toes were resting lightly and securely on cold stone. The smell of burned flesh remained and the painful stinging in my toes, mingled with that smell was a drift of perfume close by. Dullisa murmured, I do not wish to break our bargain by damaging your feet, it's only a little touch of fire to keep you from too much security in resting them. I felt the taste of blood mingle in my mouth with a sour taste of vomit, I felt delirious, light-headed, after another eternity I wondered if I had really heard Dullisa's lilting croon, or whether it was a nightmare born of feverish pain.  Would not such doom be light upon you? Perhaps I shall set you free to seek Raqal, if only to play at K'ral.  It died into an endlessly echoing whisper, swaying, blindly, I wondered why I endured.  I, who need not be bound by wolf's codes either, I fumbled with a stiff shape of words, and a breath saved me. A soft, released wrath of anticipation. It was another trick. I swayed limp and wracked. I was not race-cargled now.  The sounds of boots rang on the stone in K'ral's voice, low and bitter demanded somewhere behind me. What have you done with him? She did not answer, but I heard her chains clash lightly and imagined her gesture. K'ral muttered, women have no genius at any torture except. His voice faded out into great distances. Their words came to me over a sort of windy ringing like the howling of lost men dying in the snow-fast passes of the mountains.  He can't hear you now. If you have let him faint, you are clumsy. You talk of clumsiness? Dullisa's voice, even thinned by the nightmare ringing in my head, held concentrated scorn. Perhaps I shall release him to find recall when you've failed. The Terrans have a price on recall's head, too, and at least this man will not confuse himself with his prey. If you think I would let you bargain with a Taranan, Dullisa cried passionately, you trade with the Terrans, how would you stop me then? I trade with them because I must, but for a matter involving the honor of the Great House, the Great House whose steps you would never have climbed except for recall. Dullisa sounded as if she were chewing her words in little pieces and spitting them at K'ral. Oh, you were clever to take us both as your consorts. You did not know what was recall's doing, did you? Hate the Terrans, then. She sped an obscenity at him. Enjoy your hate, wallow in hating, and in the end, all Shane Saw will fall prey to the Toymaker, like Mei Lin.  Like Mei Lin, Mei Lin, Mei Lin, Dullisa repeated deliberately. You fool, recall knew nothing of Mei Lin. He was seen. With me, you fool, with me. You cannot tell twin from twin? Recall came to me to ask news of her. K'ral cried out hoarsely, like a man in anguish. Why didn't you tell me? You don't really have to ask, do you, K'ral?   I heard the sound of a blow. The next moment, K'ral ripped the blindfold from my eyes, and I blinked in the blaze of light. My arms were wholly numb now, twisted above my head, but the jar of his touch sent fresh pain racing through me.  If that is true, then this is a damnable farce, Dullisa. You have lost our chance of learning what he knows of Mei Lin. What he knows? Dullisa lowered her hand from her face, where a bruise was already darkening. Mei Lin has twice appeared when I was with him. Loose him, Dullisa, and bargain with him, what we know of Recall for what he knows of Mei Lin. If you think I would let you bargain with Taranan, she mocked. Weakling, this quirl is mine. You fool, the others in the caravan will give me news if you will not. Where is Quinn? From a million miles away, K'ral laughed. You've slipped the wrong hawk, Dullisa. The cat-man killed him. His skein flicked loose. He climbed to a perch near the rope at my wrists. Bargain with me, Rascar? I coughed, unable to speak, and K'ral insisted. Will you bargain? End this damned woman's farce which makes a mock of Shagri? The slant of sun told me there was light left. I found a shred of voice, not knowing what I was going to say until I had said it irrevocably. This is between Dullisa and me. K'ral glared at me in mounting rage.  And the door slammed. His face swam red, and again as before I knew the battle which was joined between us would be fought to a dreadful end. She touched my chest lightly, but the touch jolted excruciating pains through my shoulders. Did you kill Quinn? I wondered wearily what this presaged. Did you? In a passion she cried, Answer! Did you kill him?  I fainted. Answer!  Answer me! Answer! Each cry brought a blow until I gasped finally. He signaled, set Catman on us. No!  She screamed wildly, and the huge chalk came running. Cut him down! Cut him down! Cut him down! A knife slashed the rope, and I slumped, falling in a bone-breaking huddle to the floor. My arms were still twisted over my head. The chalk cut the ropes apart, pulled my arms roughly back into place, and I gagged with the pain as the blood began flowing painfully through the chaffed and swollen hands. And then I lost consciousness, more or less permanently this time. End of CHAPTER VIII. When I came to again I was lying with my head in Delisa's lap, and the reddish color of the sunset was in the room. Her thighs were soft under my head, and for an instant I wondered if, in delirium, I had conceded to her. I muttered, Son! Not Down! She bent her face to mine, whispering, Hush! Hush! It was heaven, and I drifted off again. After a moment I felt a cup against my lips. Can you swallow this? I could, and did. I couldn't taste it yet, but it was cold and wet, and felt heavenly trickling down my throat. She bent and looked into my eyes, and I felt as if I were falling into those reddish and stormy depths.  Suddenly my head cleared and I sat upright. Is this a trick to force me into calling my bet? She recoiled as if I had struck her. Then the trace of a smile flitted around her red mouth. Yes, between us it was battle. You are right to be suspicious, I suppose. But if I tell you what I know of recall, will you trust me then? I looked straight at her and said, No. Surprisingly she threw back her head and laughed. I flexed my freed wrists cautiously. The skin was torn away and chafed, and my arms ached to the bone when I moved harsh lances of pain drove through my chest. Well, until sunset I have no right to ask you to trust me, said Delisa when she was done laughing.  I blazed. You are making a game of me. Is that my privilege? Do you refuse? Refuse. It was not yet sunset. This might be a torture more complex than any which had yet greeted me. From the scarlet glint in her eyes I felt she was playing with me as the cat things of the forest play with their helpless victims.  She murmured, smiling. Is this so unbearable then? I said nothing. Never. Never for an instant could I forget that. All human, all woman as she seemed, Delisa's race was worn and old when the Terran Empire had not left their home star. The mind of Wolf, which has mingled with the nonhumans since before the beginnings of recorded time, is unfathomable to an outsider. I was better equipped than most earthmen to keep pace with its surface acts, but I could never pretend to understand its deeper motivations. It works on complex and irrational logic. Mischief is an integral part of it. Even the deadly blood feud with Recall had begun with an over-elaborate practical joke which had lost the service incidentally several thousand credits worth of spaceship, and so I could not trust Delisa for an instant. Yet it was wonderful to lie here with my head resting against the perfumed softness of her body. Then suddenly her arms were gripping me, frantic and hungry, the subdued thing in her voice, her eyes, flamed out hot and wild, she was pressing the whole length of her body to mine, breasts and thighs and long legs, and her voice was hoarse. Is this torture too? Beneath the fur robe she was soft and white, and the subtle scent of her hair seemed a deeper entrapment than any. Frail as she seemed, her arms had the strength of steel, and pain blazed down my wrenched shoulders seared through the twined wrists. Then I forgot the pain. Over her shoulder, the last dropping redness of the sun vanished, and plunged the room into orchid twilight.  And I knew that the battle between us had reached climax and victory simultaneously, and any question about who had won was purely academic. During the night some time while her dark head lay motionless on my shoulder, I found myself staring into the darkness, wakeful. The throbbing of my bruises had little to do with my sleeplessness. I was remembering other chained girls from the old days in the dry towns, and the honey and poison of them distilled into Dulles' kisses. Her head was very light on my shoulder, and she felt curiously insubstantial, like a woman of feathers. One of the tiny moons was visible through the slitted windows. I thought of my rooms in the tarren trade-city, clean and bright and warm, and all the nights when I had paced the floor, hating, filled to the teeth with bitterness, longing for the windswept stars of the dry towns, the salt smell of the winds, and the musical clashing of the walk of the chained women. With a sting of guilt I realized that I had half forgotten Julie, and my pledge to her, and her misfortune which had freed me again for this. Yet I had won, and what they knew had narrowed my planet-wide search to a pin-point. Recall was in Charon. I wasn't altogether surprised. Charon is the only city on Wolf, except the Kharsa, where the Taran Empire has put down deep roots into the planet, built a trade-city, a smaller spaceport. Like the Kharsa it lies within the circle of Taran Law, and a million miles outside it. A non-human town inhabited largely by chocks, it is the core and center of the resistance movement, a noisy town in perpetual ferment. It was the logical place for a renegade. I settled myself so that the ache in my wracked shoulders was less violent and muttered. Why Charon? Slight as the movement was, it roused Dallasa. She rolled over and propped herself on her elbows, quoting drowsily, the prey walked safest at the hunter's door. I stared at the square of violet moonlight, trying to fit together all the pieces of the puzzle, and asked, half aloud, What prey? And what hunters? Dallasa didn't answer. I hadn't expected her to answer. I asked the real question in my mind. Why does Karal hate Raqal Sansar when he doesn't even know him by sight? There are reasons, she said somberly. One of them is Malin, my twin sister. Karal climbed the steps of the Great House by claiming us both as his consorts. He is our father's son by another wife. That explained much. Brother and sister marriages, not uncommon in the dry towns, are based on expediency and suspicion, and are frequently, though not always, loveless. It explained Dallasa's taunts, and it partly explained, only partly, why I found her in my arms. It did not explain Raqal's part in this mysterious intrigue, nor why Karal had taken me for a call, but only after he remembered seeing me in Terran I wondered why it had never occurred to me before that I might be mistaken for Raqal. There was no close resemblance between us, but a casual description would apply equally well to me or to Raqal. My height is unusual for a Terran, within an inch of Raqal's own, and we had roughly the same build, the same coloring. I had copied his walk, imitated his mannerisms, since we were boys together. And, blurring minor facial characteristics, there were the scars of the kefirch on my mouth, cheeks, and shoulders. Anyone who did not know us by sight, anyone who had known us by reputation from the days when we had worked together in the dry towns, might easily take one of us for the other. Even Julie had blurted, You're so much alike, before thinking better of it. Other odd bits of the puzzle floated in my mind, stubbornly refusing to take on recognizable patterns, the disappearance of a toy seller, Julie's hysterical babbling, the way the girl, Mei Lin, had vanished into a shrine of nebren, and the taunts of Dalissa and the old man about a mysterious toy maker, and something, some random juggling of a memory in that eerie trading in the city of the silent ones. I knew all these things fitted together somehow, but I had no real hope that Dalissa could complete their pattern for me. She said, with a vehemence that startled me, Mei Lin is only the excuse, Kiral hates Raqal because Raqal will compromise, and because he'll fight. She rolled over and pressed herself against me in the darkness, her voice trembled, race, our world is dying, we can't stand against Tara, and there are other things, worse things. I sat up, surprised to find myself defending Tara to this girl. After all these years, I was back in my own world, and yet and yet I heard myself say quietly, the Terrans aren't exploiting wolf, we haven't abolished the rule of Shainsah we've changed nothing. It was true, Tara held wolf by compact, not conquest. They paid, and paid generously for the lease of the lands where their trade cities would rise, and stepped beyond them only when invited to do so. We let any city or state that wants to keep its independence govern itself until it collapses, Dalissa. And they do collapse after a generation or so. Very few primitive planets can hold out against us. The people themselves get tired of living under feudal or theocratic systems, and they beg to be taken into the empire. That's all. But that's just it. Dalissa argued. You give the people all those things we used to give them, and you do it better. Just by being here, you're killing the Dry Towns. They're turning to you and leaving us, and you let them do it. I shook my head. We've kept the Terran peace for centuries. What do you expect?  Yes, she flared at me. The Dry Towns have ruled wolf since since You can't even imagine how long, and we made compact with you to trade here, and we have rewarded you by leaving you untouched, I said quietly. But we have not forbidden the Dry Towns to come into the empire and work with Terra.  Melein broke away, but I cannot. Courage is what I lack. Our world is rotten race, rotten all through, and I'm as rotten as the core of it.  Our world is rotten, but I have no confidence that the new world will be better. I put my hand under her chin and looked down gravely into her face, only a pale oval in the darkness. There was nothing I could say. She had said it all, and truthfully.  She ran her fingers over the scars on my face, then gripped her small, thin hands around my wrist so fiercely that I grunted protest. You will not forget me, she said in her strangely lilting voice. You will not forget me, although you were victorious. She twisted and lay looking up at me, her eyes glowing faintly luminous in darkness. I knew that she could see me as clearly as if it were day. I think it was my victory, not yours, race cargo. Gently, on an impulse I could not explain I picked up one delicate wrist, then the other, unclasping the heavy jeweled bracelets.  I said goodbye to her alone in the reddish, windswept space before the great house.  For answer I only picked up her narrow wrists and turned them over on my palm. The jeweled bracelets were clasped again around the thinly boned joints and on some self-punishing impulse. She had shortened the chains so that she could not even put her arms around me. I lifted the punished wrists to my mouth and kissed them gently. You don't want to leave, Dallisa. I was desperately sorry for her. She would go down with her dying world, proud and cold and with no place in the new one. She kissed me, and I tasted blood, her thin fettered body straining wildly against me, shaken with tearing convulsive sobs. Then she turned and fled back into the shadow of the great dark house. I never saw her again. CHAPTER X A few days later I found myself nearing the end of the trail. It was twilight in Charon, hot and reeking with a gypsy glare of fires which burned smoking at the far end of the street of the sick shepherds. I crouched in the shadow of a wall, waiting. My skin itched from the dirty shirt-cloak I hadn't changed in days. Shabbiness is wise in non-human parts, and dry-towners think too much of water to waste much of it in superfluous washing anyhow. I scratched unobtrusively and glanced cautiously down the street. It seemed empty, except for a few sodden derelicts sprawled in doorways. The street of the six shepherds is a filthy slum, but I made sure my skin was loose. Charon is not a particularly safe town, even for dry-towners, and especially not for earthmen at any time. Even with what Dallas had told me, the search had been difficult. Charon is not Shainsaw, in Charon, where human and non-human live closer together than anywhere else on the planet. Information about such men as R'Khal can be bought, but the policy is to let the buyer beware. That's fair enough, because the life of the seller has a way of not being worth much afterward, either. A dirty, dust-laden wind was blowing up along the street, heavy with strange smells, the pungent reek of incense from a street shrine was in the smells, the heavy, acrid odor that made my skin crawl. In the hills behind Charon, the ghost wind was rising. Born on this wind, the yamen would sweep down from the mountains, and everything human or nearly human would scatter in their path. They would range through the quarter all night, and in the morning they would melt away, until the ghost wind blew again. At any other time I would already have taken cover. I fancied that I could hear, born on the wind, the faraway yelping, and envision the plumed, taloned figures which would come leaping down the street. In that moment, the quiet of the street split asunder. From somewhere a girl's voice screamed in shrill pain or panic. Then I saw her, dodging between two of the chinked pebble houses. She was a child, thin and barefoot, a long tangle of black hair flying loose as she darted and twisted to elude the lumbering fellow at her heels. His outstretched paw jerked cruelly at her slim wrist. The little girl screamed and wrenched herself free, and threw herself straight on me, wrapping herself around my neck with the violence of a storm wind.  Help me! she gasped, between sobs. Don't let him get me, don't! And even in the broken plea, I took it in that the little ragamuffin did not speak the jargon of that slum but the pure speech of Shainsaw. What I did then was as automatic as if it had been Julie. I pulled the kid loose, shoved her behind me and scowled at the brute who lurched toward us. Make yourself scarce, I advised.  Hall off now. The man reeled. I smelled the rankness of his rags as he thrust one grammy paw at the girl. I never was the hero type, but I had started something which I had to carry through. I thrust myself between them and put my hand on the skin again. You! You dry-towner! The man set up a tipsy howl and I sucked in my breath. Now I was in for it. Unless I got out of there damned fast, I'd lose what I'd come all the way to Charon to find. I felt like handing the girl over. For all I knew, the bully could be her father, and she was properly in line for spanking. This wasn't any of my business. My business lay at the end of the street, where Raqqal was waiting at the fires. He wouldn't be there long. Already the smell of the ghost wind was heavy and harsh, and little flurries of sand went racing along the street, lifting the flaps of the doorways. But I did nothing so sensible. The big lunk made a grab at the girl, and I whipped out my skin and pantomimed. Get going! Dry-towner!  Son of the ape! Earthman! Taranan! Someone took up the howl. There was a stir, a rustle, all along the street that had seemed empty, and from nowhere it seemed. The space in front of me was crowded with shadowy forms, human, and otherwise. Earthman! I felt the muscles across my belly nodding into a band of ice. I didn't believe I'd given myself away as an earthman. The bully was using this time dishonored tactic of stirring up a riot in a hurry, but just the same. I looked quickly around, hunting a path of escape.  Grab him! Hi! Earthman! Hi! It was the last cry that made me panic. Through the sultry glare at the end of the street, I could see the plumed, taloned figures of the Yaman gliding through the banners of smoke. The crowd melted open. I didn't stop to reflect on the fact, suddenly very obvious, that recall couldn't have been at the fires at all, and that my informant had led me into an open trap, a nest of Yaman already inside Charon. The crowd edged back and muttered, and suddenly I made my choice. I whirled, snatched up the girl in my arms, and ran straight toward the advancing figures of the Yaman. Nobody followed me.  I heard the yelping shrieks of the Yaman grow to a wild howl. And at the last minute, when their stiff, rustling plumes loomed only a few yards away, I dived sideways into an alley, stumbled on some rubbish, and spilled the girl down. Run, kid! She shook herself like a puppy climbing out of the water.  This way! She urged in a hasty whisper, and I found myself plunging out the far end of the alley and into the shelter of a street shrine. The sour stink of incense smarted in my nostrils, and I could hear the yelping of the Yaman as they leaped and rustled down the alley. Their cold and poisonous eyes searching out the recesses where I crouched with the girl. Here! she panted. Stand close to me on the stone. I drew back, startled. Oh, don't stop to argue! she whimpered. Come here! Hi! Earthman! There he is! The girl's arms flung round me again. I felt her slight hard body pressing on mine, and she literally hauled me toward the pattern of stones in the center of the shrine. I wouldn't have been human if I hadn't caught her closer yet. The world reeled. The street disappeared in a cone of spinning lights. Stars danced crazily, and I plunged down through a widening gulf of empty space locked in the girl's arms. I fell. Spunned, plunged, head over heels through tilting lights and shadows that flung us through the eternities of freefall. The yelping of the Yaman whirled away in unimaginable distances, and for a second I felt the unmerciful blackout of a power dive, with blood breaking from my nostrils and filling my mouth. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Door Through Space This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. That's L-I-B-R-I-V-O-X-dot-O-R-G. Recording by Christine Owock. The Door Through Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Chapter 11 Lights flared in my eyes. I was standing solidly on my feet in the street shrine. But the street was gone. Coils of incense still smudged the air, the gods squatted, toed-like in his recess. The girl was hanging limp, locked in my clenched arms. As the floor straightened under my feet, I staggered, thrown off balance by the sudden return of the girl's weight, and grabbed blindly for support. Give her to me, said a voice, and the girl's sagging body was lifted from my arms. A strong hand grasped my elbow. I found a chair beneath my knees and sank gratefully into it. The transmission isn't smooth yet between such distant terminals, the voice remarked. I see Merlin has fainted again. A weakling the girl, but useful. I spat blood, trying to get the room in focus. For I was inside a room, a room of some translucent substance. Windalus, a skylight high above me, through which pink daylight streamed. Daylight. And it had been midnight in Charon. I had come halfway around the planet in a few seconds. From somewhere I heard the sound of hammering, tiny bell-like hammering, the chiming of a fairy anvil. I looked up, and saw a man. A man, watching me. On Wolf you see all kinds of human, half-human, and non-human life, and I considered myself something of an expert on all three. But I had never seen anyone, or any thing who so closely resembled the human, and so obviously wasn't. He, or it, was tall and lean, man-shaped but oddly muscled, a vague suggestion of something less than human in the lean hunch of his posture. Man like he wore green, tight-fitting trunks and a shirt of green fur that revealed bulging biceps where they shouldn't be, and angular planes where there should have been swelling muscles. The shoulders were high, the neck unpleasantly sinuous, and the face, a little narrower than human, was handsomely arrogant with a kind of warry, alert mischief that was the least human thing about him. He bent, tilted the girl's inert body on a devan of some sort, and turned his back on her, lifting his hand in an impatient and unpleasantly reminiscent gesture. The tinkling of the little hammers stopped as if a switch had been disconnected. Now, said the non-human, we can talk. Like the wave he spoke chainsaw, and spoke it with a better accent than any non-human I'd ever known, so well that I looked again to be certain. I wasn't two days to answer in the same tongue, but I couldn't keep back a spate of questions. What happened? Who are you? What is this place? The non-human waited, crossing his hands, quite passable hands if he didn't look too closely at what should have been nails, and bent forward in a sketchy gesture. Do not blame Meilin. She acted under orders. It was imperative you be brought here tonight, and we had reason to believe you might ignore an ordinary summons. You were clever at evading our surveillance for a time. But there would not be two dry-towners in Charen tonight who would dare the ghost wind. Your reputation does you justice, Recall Sansar. Recall Sansar. Once again, Recall. Shaken, I pulled a rag from my pocket and wiped blood from my mouth. I'd figured out in chainsaw why the mistake was logical, and here in Charen I'd been hanging around in Recall's old haunts covering his old trails. Once again, mistaken identity was natural. Natural or not, I wasn't going to deny it. If these were Recall's enemies, my real identity should be kept as an ace in reserve which might, just might, get me out alive again. If they were his friends. Well, I could only hope that no one who knew him well by sight would walk in on me. We knew, the non-human continued, that if you remained where you were, the Tehran and Cargill would have made his arrest. We know about your quarrel with Cargill, among other things, but we did not consider it necessary that you should fall into his hands at present. I was puzzled. I still don't understand. Exactly where am I? This is the Master Shrine of Nabron. Nabron. The stray pieces of the puzzle suddenly jolted into place. Kiral had warned me, not knowing he was doing it. I hastily imitated the gesture Kiral had made, gabbling a few words of an archaic charm. Like every Earthman who's lived on Wolf more than a tourist season, I'd seen faces go blank and impassive at the mention of the Toad God. Rumor made his spies omnipresent, his priests omniscient, his anger all-powerful. I had believed about a tenth of what I had heard. Or less. The Tehran Empire has little to say to planetary religions, and Nabron's cult is a remarkably obscure one, despite the street shrines on every corner. Now I was in his Master Shrine, and the device which had brought me here was beyond doubt a working model of a matter transmitter. A matter transmitter. A working model. The words triggered memory. Recall was after it. And who, I asked slowly. Are you, Lord? The green-clad creature hunched thin shoulders again in a ceremonious gesture. I am called Everon, humble servant of Nabron, and yourself, he added, but there was no humility in his manner. I am called the Toymaker. Everon. That was another name given weight by rumor, a breath of gossip in a thieves' market, a scrawled word on smudged paper, a blank folder in Tehran intelligence. Another puzzle piece snapped into place. Toymaker. The girl on the devan sat up suddenly, passing slim hands over her disheveled hair. Did I thank Everon? I had to fight to get him into the stone, and the patterns were not set straight in that terminal. You must send one of the little ones to set them to rights. Toymaker, are you listening to me? Stop chattering, Meilin, said Everon indifferently. You brought him here, and that is all that matters. You aren't hurt? Meilin pouted and looked roofily at her bare, bruised feet, patted the wrinkles of her ragged frock with fastidious fingers.  Toymaker, what way was this to send me to entice a man? Any man would have come quickly, quickly, if he had seen me looking lovely.  She stamped a small bare foot. She was not nearly as young as she looked in the street, though immature and underdeveloped by Terran standards. She had a fair figure for a dry town woman. Her rags fell now in graceful folds. Her hair was spun black glass, and I saw what the rags and the confusion in the filthy street had kept me from seeing before. It was the girl of the Spaceport Cafe. The girl who had appeared and vanished in the eerie streets of Canarsa. Everyn was regarding her with what, in a human, might have been rueful in patience, he said. You know you enjoyed yourself, as always, Maylyn. Run along and make yourself beautiful again, little nuisance. The girl danced out of the room, and I was just as glad to see her go. The Toymaker motioned to me. This way, he directed, and led me through a different door. The offstage hammering I had heard, tiny bell tones like a fairy xylophone began again as the door opened, and we passed into a workroom which made me remember nursery tales from a half forgotten childhood on Terra, for the workers were tiny, gnarled, trolls. They were chocks. Chocks from the polar mountains, dwarfed and furred and half human, with witch-like faces and great golden eyes, and I had the curious feeling that if I looked hard enough, I would see the little toy cellar they had hunted out of the Charsa. I didn't look. I figured I was in enough trouble already. Tiny hammers patterned on miniature anvils in a tinkling jingling chorus of musical clinks and taps. Golden eyes focused like lenses over winking jewels and gim cracks, busy elves, makers of toys. Everon jerked his shoulders with an imperative gesture. I followed him through a fairy workroom, but could not refrain from casting a lingering look at the worktables. A withered leprechaun set eyes into the head of a mannequin hound. Ferd fingers worked precious metals into invisible filigree for the collarpiece of a dancing doll. Metallic feathers were thrust with clockwork precision into the wings of a skeleton bird no longer than my fingernail. The nose of the hound wabbled and sniffed. The bird's wings quivered. The eyes of the little dancer followed my footsteps. Toys.  The clinks and taps grew faint. Fainter, but never ceased. My face must have betrayed more than conventional impassivity for Everon smiled. Now you know, Raquel, why I am called the Toymaker. Is it not strange? The Master Priest of Nebron, a maker of toys, and the Shrine of the Toad God, a workshop for children's playthings. Everon paused suggestively. They were obviously not children's playthings, and this was my cue to say so. But I avoided the trap. Everon opened a sliding panel and took out a doll. She was perhaps the length of my longest finger, molded to the precise proportions of a woman, and costumed after the bizarre fashion of the art-cron dancing girls. Everon touched no button or key that I could see, but when he set the figure on its feet, it executed a whirling, arm-tossing dance in a fast, tricky tempo. I am, in a sense, benevolent, Everon murmured. He snapped his fingers, and the doll sank to her knees, and poised their silent. Moreover, I have the means, and let us say the ability to indulge my small fantasies. The little daughter of the President of the Federation of Trade Cities on Samara was sent such a doll recently.  The twimmaker clucked his teeth commiseratingly. Perhaps this small companion will compensate the little Carmella for her adjustment to her new position. He replaced the dancer and pulled down something like a whirligig. This might interest you, he mused, and said it spinning. I stared at the pattern of lights that flowed and disappeared, melting in and out of visible shadows. Suddenly I realized what the thing was doing. I rested my eyes away with an effort. Had there been a lapse of seconds or minutes? Had Everon spoken? Everon arrested the compelling motion with one finger. Several of these pretty playthings are available to the children of important men, he said absently, an import of value for our exported and impoverished world. Unfortunately they are perhaps a little obvious. The incident of nervous breakdowns is interfering with their sale. The children, of course, are unaffected and love them. Everon set the hypnotic wheel moving again, glanced sideways at me and set it carefully back. Now, Everon's voice, hard with the silkiness of a cat's snarl clawed the silence. We'll talk business. I turned, composing my face. Everon had something concealed in one hand, but I didn't think it was a weapon, and if I'd known, I'd have had to ignore it anyway. Perhaps you wonder how we recognized and found you. A panel cleared in the wall and became translucent. Confused flickers moved, dropped into focus, and I realized that the panel was an ordinary television screen, and I was looking into the well-known interior of the Café of Three Rainbows in the trade city of Charon. By this time I was running low on curiosity and didn't wonder till much, much later how televised pictures were transmitted around the curve of a planet. Everon sharpened the focus down on the long, earth-type bar where a tall man in tarant clothes was talking to a pale-haired girl. Everon said, By now, Ray's cargo has decided, no doubt, that you fell into his trap and into the hands of the Yaman. He is off guard now. And suddenly the whole thing seemed so unbearably illogically funny that my shoulders shook with the effort to keep back dangerous laughter. Since I'd landed in Charon I'd taken great pains to avoid the trade city, or anyone who might have associated me with it, and recall, somehow aware of this, had conveniently filled in the gap, by posing as me. It wasn't nearly as difficult as it sounded. I had found that out in Shainsa. Charon is a long, long way from the major trade city near the Kharsa. I hadn't a single intimate friend there, or within hundreds of miles, to see through the imposture. At most there were half a dozen of the staff that I'd once met, or had a drink with, eight or ten years ago. Recall could speak perfect standard when he chose. If he lapsed into dry-town idiom, that too was in my known character. I had no doubt he was making a great success of it all, probably doing much better with my identity than I could ever have done with his. Everon rasped. Cargill meant to leave the planet. What stopped him? You could be of use to us, Recall, but not with this blood-feud unsettled. That needed no elucidation. No wolfen in his right mind will bargain with a dry-towner carrying an unresolved blood-feud. By law and custom, declared blood-feud takes precedent over any other business, public or private, and is sufficient excuse for broken promises, neglected duties, theft, even murder. He wanted settled once and for all. Everon's voice was low and unhurried. And we aren't above weighting the scales. This Cargill can and has posed as a dry-towner undetected. We don't like earthmen who can do that. In settling your feud you will be aiding us and removing a danger. We would be… grateful. He opened his closed hand, displaying something small, curled, inert. Every living thing emits a characteristic pattern of electrical nerve impulses. We have ways of recording those impulses, and we have had you and Cargill under observation for a long time. We've had plenty of opportunity to key this toy to Cargill's pattern. On his palm the curled thing stirred, spread wings, a fledgling bird lay there, small, soft body throbbing slightly. Half-hidden in a rough of metallic feathers I glimpsed a grimly elongated beak. The pinions were feathered with delicate delt unless than a quarter of an inch long. They beat with delicate insistence against the toymaker's prisoning fingers. This is not dangerous to you. Press here, he showed me, and if race Cargill is within a certain distance, and it is up to you to be within that distance, it will find him, and kill him, unerringly, inescapably, untraceably. We will not tell you the critical distance, and we will give you three days. He checked my startled exclamation with a gesture. Of course, this is a test. Within the hour Cargill will receive a warning. We want no incompetence who must be helped too much, nor do we want cowards. If you fail or release the bird at a distance too great or evade the test, the green and human malice in his eyes made me sweat. We have made another bird. By now my brain was swimming, but I thought I understood the complex in human logic involved. The other bird is keyed to me.  You, you are used to danger and fond of a gamble. Nothing so simple. We have given you three days. If within that time the bird you carried has not killed, the other bird will fly, and it will kill. Raquel, you have a wife. Yes, Raquel had a wife. They could threaten Raquel's wife. And his wife was my sister Julie. Everything after that was anti-climax. Of course I had to drink with Avron, the elaborate formal ritual without which no bargain on wolf is concluded. He entertained me with gory and technical descriptions of the ways in which the birds, and other of his hellish toys, did their killing and worse tasks. I then danced into the room and upset the exquisite solemnity of the wine ritual by perching on my knee, stealing a sip from my cup, and pouting prettily when I paid her less attention than she thought she merited. I didn't dare pay much attention, even when she whispered with the deliberate and thorough wantoness of a dry town woman of high caste who has flung aside her fetters something about a rendezvous at the three rainbows. But eventually it was over, and I stepped through a door that twisted with a giddy blankness and found myself outside a bare, windowless wall and chair and again the night sky starred and cold, the acrid smell of the ghost wind was thinning in the streets. But I had to crouch in a cranny of the wall when a final rustling horde of yamen, the last of their receding tide, rustled down the street. I found my way to my lodging in a filthy chalk-costal and threw myself down on the verminous bed. Believe it or not, I slept. CHAPTER XII. An hour before dawn there was a noise in my room. I roused, my hand on my skin. Someone, or something, was fumbling under the mattress where I had thrust Evern's bird. I struck out, encountered something warm in breathing and grappled with it in the darkness. A foul-smelling something gripped over my mouth. I tore it away and struck hard with the skin. There was a high shrilling. The gripping filth loosened and fell away and something died on the floor. I struck a light, retching in revulsion. It hadn't been human. There wouldn't have been that much blood from a human. Not that color, either. The chalk who ran the place came and gibbered at me. Chocks have a horror of blood, and this one gave me to understand that my lease was up then and there. No arguments. No refunds. He wouldn't even let me go into his stone outbuilding to wash the foul stuff from my shirt-cloak. I gave up and fished under the mattress for Evern's toy. The chalk got a glimpse of the embroideries on the silk in which it was wrapped and stood back, his loose furry lips hanging open while I gathered my few belongings together and strode out of the room. He would not touch the coins I offered. I laid them on a chest and he let them lie there. And as I went into the reddening morning they came flying after me into the street. I pulled the silk from the toy and tried to make some sense from my predicament. The little thing lay innocent and silent in my palm. It wouldn't tell me whether it had been keyed to me, the real cargo, some time in the past, or to recall using my name and reputation in the Terran Colony here at Charon. If I pressed the stud it might play out this comedy of errors by hunting down recall and all my troubles would be over, for a while at least, until Evern found out what had happened. I didn't deceive myself that I could carry the impersonation through another meeting. On the other hand, if I pressed the stud the bird might turn on me and then all my troubles would be over for good. If I delayed past Evern's deadline and did nothing the other bird in his keeping would hunt down Julie and give her a swift and not too painless death. I spent most of the day in a chalk dive, juggling plans, toys innocent and sinister, spies, messengers, toys which killed horribly, toys which could be controlled perhaps by the pliant mind of a child, and every child hates its parents now and again. Even in the Terran Colony, who was safe? In Mac's very home one of the Magnus and Youngsters had a shiny thing which might, or might not, be one of Evern's hellish toys.   Evern couldn't be infallible. He hadn't even recognized me as race-cargill. Or suddenly the sweat broke out again on my forehead. Or had he? Had the whole thing been one of those sinister, deadly and incomprehensible non-human jokes? I kept coming to the same conclusion. Julie was in danger. But she was half a world away. Raq'al was here in Charon. There was a child involved, Julie's child. The first step was to get inside the Terran Colony and see how the land lay. Charon is a city shaped like a crescent moon encircling the small trade city, a miniature spaceport, a miniature skyscraper HQ and cluster dwellings of the Terrans who worked there, and those who lived with them and supplied them with necessities, services, and luxuries. Entry from one to the other is through a guarded gateway, since this is hostile territory, and Charon lies far beyond the impress of ordinary Terran law. But the gate stood open wide, and the guards looked lax and bored. They had shockers, but they didn't look as if they'd used them lately. One raised an eyebrow to his companion as I shambled up. I could pretty well guess the impression I made, dirty, unkempt, and stained with non-human blood. I asked permission to go into the Terran zone. They asked me my name and business, and I toyed with the notion of giving them the name of the man I was inadvertently impersonating. Then I decided that if Ra'Khal had passed himself off as Ra''s cargo, he'd expect exactly that, and he was also capable of the masterstroke of impudence, putting out a pickup order through Space Force for his own name. So I gave them the name we'd used from Shainsaw to Charon and tacked one of the Secret Service passwords on the end of it. They each looked at each other again and one said, Raskara, this is the guy all right. He took me into the little booth by the gate while the other used an intercom device. Presently they took me along to the HQ building and into an office that said Leggett. I tried not to panic, but it wasn't easy. Evidently I'd walked square into another trap. One guard asked me, all right, now what exactly is your business in the trade-city? I'd hoped to locate Ra'Khal first. Now I knew I'd have no chance, and at all costs I must straighten out this matter of identity before it went any further. Put me straight through to Magnuson's office, level 38 at Central HQ, by Vizzy, I demanded. I was trying to remember if Mack had ever even heard the name we used in Shainsaw. I decided I couldn't risk it. Name of Ra'Khal. The guard grinned without moving, he said to his partner. That's the one all right. He put his hand on my shoulder, spinning me around. Hall off, man, shake your boots. There were two of them, and Space Force guards aren't picked for their good looks. Just the same, I gave a pretty good account of myself until the inner door opened and a man came storming out.  One guard got a hammerlock on me. This dry towner bum tried to talk us into making a priority call to Magnuson, the chief at Central. He knew a couple of the SS passwords. That's what's got him through the gate. Remember, Kar'Khal passed the word that somebody would turn up trying to impersonate him. I remember. The strange man's eyes were worry and cold.  I snarled. Magnuson will identify me. Can't you realize you're dealing with an imposter? One of the guards said to the Liget in an undertone. Maybe we ought to hold him as a suspicious character. But the Liget shook his head. Not worth the trouble. Kar'Khal said it was a private affair. You might search him. Make sure he's not concealing contraband weapons, he added, and talked softly to the wide-eyed clerk in the background while the guards went through my shirt cloak and pockets. When they started to unwrap the silk-shrotted toy, I yelled. If the thing got set off accidentally, there'd be trouble. The Liget turned and rebuked. Can't you see it's embroidered with a toad-god? It's a religious amulet of some sort. Let it alone. They grumbled, but gave it back to me, and the Liget commanded, Don't mess him up any more. Give him back his knife and take him to the gates, but make sure he doesn't come back. I found myself seized and frog-marched to the gate. One guard pushed my skin back into its clasp. The other shoved me hard, and I stumbled, fell sprawling in the dust of the cobbled street to the accompaniment of a profane statement about what I could expect if I came back. A chorus of jeers from a cluster of chock-children and veiled women broke across me. I picked myself up, glowered so fiercely at the giggling spectators that the laughter drained away into silence and clenched my fists, half inclined to turn back and bull my way through. Then I subsided. First round, to recall. He had sprung the trap on me, very neatly. The street was narrow and crooked, winding between doubled rows of pebble houses and full of dark shadows even in the crimson noon. I walked aimlessly, favouring the arm the guard had crushed. I was no closer to settling things with recall, and I had slammed at least one gate behind me. Why hadn't I had sense enough to walk up in demand to see, race carcall? Why hadn't I insisted on a fingerprint check? I could prove my identity and recall using my name in my absence to those who didn't know me by sight, couldn't. I could at least have made him try. But he had manoeuvred it very cleverly, so I never had a chance to insist on proofs. I turned into a wine-shop and ordered a drum of greenish mountain berry liquor, sipping it slowly and fingering the few bills and coins in my pockets. I'd better forget about warning Julie. I couldn't vise her from Charon, except in the Terran Zone. I had neither the money nor the time to make the trip in person, even if I could get passage on a Terran-dominated airline after to-day. May Lynn. She had flirted with me, and like Dallisa, she might prove vulnerable. It might be another trap, but I'd take the chance. At least I could get hints about Evern, and I needed information. I wasn't used to this kind of intrigue any more. The smell of danger was foreign to me now, and I found it unpleasant. The small lump of the bird in my pocket tantalized me. I took it out again. It was a temptation to press the stud and let it settle things, or at least start them going, then and there. After a while I noticed the proprietors of the shop staring at the silk of the wrappings. They backed off, apprehensive. I held out a coin, and they shook their heads. You are welcome to the drink, one of them said. All we have is at your service. Only, please go. Go quickly. They would not touch the coins I offered. I thrust the bird in my pocket, swore, and went. It was my second experience with being somehow taboo, and I didn't like it. It was dusk when I realized I was being followed. At first it was a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, a head seen too frequently for coincidence. It developed into a too persistent footstep, an uneven rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. I had my skin handy, but I had a hunch this wasn't anything I could settle with a skin. I ducked into a side street and waited. Nothing. I went on, laughing at my imagined fears. Then, after a time, the soft, persistent footfall thudded behind me again.  Far behind I heard the familiar uneven hurry. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I fled down a street where women sat on flower-decked balconies, their open lanterns flowing with fountains and rivulets of gold and orange fire. I raced through quiet streets where furred children crept to doors and watched me pass with great golden eyes that shone in the dark. I dodged into an alley and lay there, breathing hard. Someone, not two inches away, said, Are you one of us, brother? I muttered something surly in his dialect, and a hand reassuringly human closed on my elbow. This way. Out of breath, with long running, I let him lead me, meaning to break away after a few steps, apologize for mistaken identity and vanish. When a sound at the end of the street made me jerk stiff and listen. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.  CHAPTER XIII I stumbled over steps, took a jolting stride downward, and found myself in a dim room jammed with dark figures, human and non-human. The figures swayed in the darkness, chanting in a dialect not altogether familiar to me. A monotonous wailing chant with a single recurrent phrase, kama'ina, kama'ina. It began on a high note, descending in weird chromatics to the lowest tone the human ear could resolve. The sound made me draw back. Even the dry-towners shunned the orgiastic rituals of kama'ina. Earthmen have a reputation for getting rid of the more objectionable customs by human standards on any planet where they live. But they don't touch religions, and kama'ina on the surface anyhow was a religion. I started to turn round and leave as if I had inadvertently walked through the wrong door. But my conductor hauled on my arm, and I was wedged in too tight by now to risk a rough house. Trying to force my way out would only have called attention to me, and the first of the secret surface maxims is, when in doubt, go along, keep quiet, and watch the other guy. As my eyes adapted to the dim light, I saw that most of the crowd were Cherrin Plainsman or Chacks. One or two wore dry-town shirt cloaks, and I even thought I saw an earthman in the crowd, though I was never sure, and I fervently hoped not.  I saw an empty place at one table and dropped there, finding the floor soft as if cushioned. On each table, small smudging pastels were burning, and from these cones of ash-tipped fire came the steamy, swimmy smoke that filled the darkness with strange colors. Beside me, an immature chat girl was kneeling. Her fettered hands strained tightly back at her sides. Her naked breasts pierced for jeweled rings. Beneath the pallid fur around her pointed ears, the exquisite animal face was quite mad. She whispered to me, but her dialect was so thick that I could follow only a few words and would just as soon not have heard those few. An older chat grunted for silence, and she subsided, swaying and crooning. There were cups and decanters on all the tables, and a woman tilted pale phosphorescent fluid into a cup and offered it to me. I took one sip, then another. It was cold and pleasantly tart, and not until the second swallow turned sweet on my tongue did I know what I tasted. I pretended to swallow while the woman's eyes were fixed on me, then somehow contrived to spill the filthy stuff down my shirt. I was wary, even, of the fumes, but there was nothing else I could do. The stuff was chalavan, outlawed on every planet in the Terran Empire, and every halfway decent planet outside it. More and more figures, men and creatures, kept crowding into the cellar, which was not very large. The place looked like the worst nightmare of a drug-dreamer, ablaze with the colours of the smoking incense, the swaying crowd and their monotonous cries. Quite suddenly there was a blaze of purple light, and someone screamed in a raving ecstasy, Nakina Nebron, Nahai Kamaeena! Kamaeena! shrilled the tranced mob. An old man jumped up and started haranging the crowd. I could just follow his dialect. He was talking about terror. He was talking about riots. He was jabbering mystical gibberish which I couldn't understand, and didn't want to understand, and rabble-rousing anti-Terran propaganda which I understood much too well. Another blaze of lights, and a long scream in chorus, Kamaeena! Ever in stood in the blaze of many-coloured light. The toy-maker, as I had seen him last, cat-smooth, gracefully alien, shrouded in a ripple of giddy-crimsons. Behind him was a blackness. I waited till the painful blaze of lights abated, then straining my eyes to see past him I got my worst shock. A woman stood there, naked to the waist. Her hands ritually fettered with little chains that stirred and clashed musically as she moved, stiff-legged in a frozen dream.  And the eyes lived in the dread-dreaming face. They lived, and they were mad with terror, although the lips curved in a gently tranced smile. May Lynn! Ever in was speaking in that dialect I barely understood. His arms were flung high, and his cloak went spilling away from them, rippling like something alive. The jammed humans and non-humans swayed and chanted, and he swayed above them like an iridescent bug, weaving arms rippling back and forth, back and forth. I strained to catch his words. Our world! An old world! Kamayina! whimpered the shrill chorus. Humans, humans, all humans would make slaves of us all, all save the children of the ape. I lost thread for a moment, true. The Terran Empire has one small blind spot in otherwise sane policy, ignoring that non-human and human have lived placidly here for millennia. They placidly assume that humans were everywhere the dominant race as on earth itself. The toy-maker's weaving arms went on spinning, spinning. I rubbed my eyes to clear them of chalavan and incense. I hoped that what I saw was an illusion of the drug, something huge and dark was hovering over the girl. She stood placidly, hands clasped on her chains, but her eyes writhed in the frozen calm of her face. Then something, I can only call it a sixth sense, bore it on me that there was someone outside the door. I was perhaps the only creature there except for ever in not drugged with chalavan, and perhaps that's all it was. But during the days in the secret service, I'd had to develop some extra senses. Five just weren't enough for survival. I knew somebody was fixing to break down that door, and I had a good idea why. I had been followed by the Liget's orders, and tracking me here had gone away and brought back reinforcements. Someone struck a blow on the door and a stentorian voice bawled, open up there in the name of the Empire. The chanting broke in ragged quavers, ever in a stopped. Somewhere a woman screamed. The lights abruptly went out, and a stampede started in the room. Women struntly with chains. Men kicked. There were shrieks and howls. I thrust my way forward, butting with elbows and knees and shoulders. A dusky emptiness yawned, and I got a glimpse of sunlight and open sky, and knew that ever in had stepped through into somewhere and was gone. The banging on the door sounded like a whole regiment of space force out there. I dived toward the shimmer of little stars which marked Malin's tiara in the darkness, braving the black horror hovering above her and touched rigid girl flesh, cold as death. I grabbed her and ducked sideways. This time it wasn't intuition. Nine times out of ten, anyway, intuition is just a mental shortcut which adds up all the things which your subconscious has noticed while you were busy thinking about something else. Every native building-owned wolf had concealed entrances and exits, and I knew where to look for them. This one was exactly where I expected. I pushed at it and found myself in a long, dim corridor. The head of a woman peered from an opening door. She saw Malin's limp body hanging on my arm and her mouth widened in a silent scream. Then the head popped back out of sight and a door slammed. I heard the bolt slide. I ran for the end of the hall, the girl in my arms, thinking that this was where I came in as far as Malin was concerned and wondering why I bothered. The door opened on a dark, peaceful street. One lonely moon was setting beyond the rooftops. I sat in Malin on her feet, but she moaned and crumpled against me. I put my shirt-cluck around her bare shoulders. Judging by the noises and yells, we'd gotten out just in time. No one came out the exit behind us. Either the Space Force had plugged it or, more likely, everyone else in the cellar had been too muddled by drugs to know what was going on. But it was only a few minutes I knew before Space Force would check the whole building for concealed escape holes. Suddenly, and irrelevantly, I found myself thinking of a day not too long ago, when I'd stood up in front of a unit in training of Space Force, introduced to them as an intelligence expert on native towns, and solemnly warned them about concealed exits and entrances. I wondered, for half a minute, if it might not be simpler just to wait here and let them pick me up. Then I hosted Malin across my shoulders. She was heavier than she looked, and after a minute, half-conscious, she began to struggle and moan. There was a check-run cook-shop down the street, a place I'd once known well, with an evil reputation and worse food. But it was quiet and stayed open all night. I turned in at the door, bending at the low lintel. The place was smoke-filled and foul-smelling. I dumped Malin on a couch, and sent the frowsy waiter for two bowls of noodles and coffee, had it him a few extra coins, and told him to leave us alone. He probably drew the worst possible inference. I saw his muzzle twitch at the smell of chalavan. But it was that kind of place anyhow. He drew down the shutters and went. I stared at the unconscious girl, then shrugged and started on the noodles. My own head was still swimmy with the fumes, incense, and drug, and I wanted it clear. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I had Everyn's right-hand girl, and I was going to use her. The noodles were greasy and had a curious taste, but they were hot, and they ate all of one bowl before Malin stirred and whimpered, and put up one hand with a little clinking of chains to her hair. The gesture was indefinably reminiscent of Dalissa, and for the first time I saw the likeness between them. It made me wary, and yet curiously softened. Finding she could not move freely, she rolled over, sat up, and stared around in growing bewilderment and dismay. There was a sort of riot, I said. I got you out. Everyn ditched you, and you can quit thinking what you're thinking. I put my shirt-look on you because you were bare to the waist, and it didn't look so good. I stopped to think that over, and amended. I mean, I couldn't haul you around the streets that way. It looked good enough. To my surprise, she gave a shaky little giggle, and held out her fettered hands. Will you? I broke her links and freed her.  Her eyes were wide and soft in the light of a flickering stub of candle. Oh, Raquel, she sighed, when I saw you there. She sat up, glasping her hands together, and when she continued, her voice was curiously cold and controlled for anyone so childish. It was almost as cold as Dalissa's. If you've come from Kiral, I'm not going back. I'll never go back, and you may as well know it. I don't come from Kiral, and I don't care where you go. I don't care what you do. I suddenly realized that the last statement was wholly untrue, and to cover my confusion I shoved the remaining bowl of noodles at her. Eat. She wrinkled her nose in fastidious disgust. I'm not hungry. Eat it anyway.  I picked up one mug of the coffee, and drained it at a single swallow.  Without warning, she flung herself across the table at me, throwing her arms around my neck. Startled, I let her cling a moment, then reached up and firmly unfastened her hands. None of that now. I fell for it once, and it landed me in the middle of the mud-pie. But her fingers bit my shoulder. Rakal, Rakal, I tried to get away and find you. Have you still got the bird? You haven't set it off yet. Oh, don't. Don't, don't, Rakal. You don't know what ever it is. You don't know what he's doing. The words spilled out of her like flood-waters. He's won so many of you. Don't let him have you, too, Rakal. They called you an honest man. You worked once for terror. The Terrans would believe you if you went to them and told them what he—Rakal, take me to the Terran zone. Take me there. Take me where they'll protect me from ever in. At first I tried to stop her, question her. Then waited and let the torrent of entreaty run on and on. At last, exhausted and breathless, she lay quietly against my shoulder, her head fallen forward. The musty reek of shallavan mingled with the flower scent of her hair. Kid, I said heavily at last, you and your toy-maker have both got me wrong. I'm not Rakal-sensar. You're not? She drew back, regarding me in dismay. Her eyes searched every inch of me, from the grey streak across my forehead to the scar running down into my collar. Then who raced Cargill? Terran intelligence.  Then she laughed. She laughed. At first I thought she was hysterical. I stared at her in consternation. Then as her wide eyes met mine, with all the mischief of the non-human which was mingled into the human here, all the circular complexities of wolfy logic behind the woman in them, I started to laugh, too.   Then she was wiping her face, tears of mirth still dripping down her cheeks, and I was frowning bleakly into the empty bowls. Cargill, she said hesitantly. You can take me to the Terrans where Rakal held bells I exploded. I can't take you anywhere, girl. I've got to find Rakal. I stopped in mid-sentence, and looked at her clearly for the first time. Child, I'll see that you're protected if I can, but I'm afraid you've walked from the trap to the cook-pot. There isn't a house in Charin that will hold me, been thrown out twice to-day. She nodded. I don't know how the word spreads, but it happens in non-human parts. I think they can see trouble written in a human face, or smell it in the wind. She fell silent. Her face propped sleepily between her hands, her hair falling in tangles. I took one of her hands in mine and turned it over. It was a fine hand, with bird-like bones and soft rose-tinted nails, but the lines and hardened places around the knuckles reminded me that she, too, came from the cold austerity of the salt-dry towns. After a moment she flushed and drew her hand from mine. What are you thinking, Cargill? she asked. And for the first time I heard her voice sobered, without the cock-ettery, which must, after all, have been a very thin veneer. I answered her simply and literally. I'm thinking of Dalessa. I thought she were very different, and yet I see that you are very like her. I thought she would question what I knew of her sister, but she let it pass in silence. After a time she said, yes, we were twins. Then, after a long silence, she added, but she was always much the older. And that was all I ever knew of whatever obscure pressures had shaped Dalessa into an astute and tragic Clytemnestra, and Malin into a pixie runaway. Outside the drawn shutters, dawn was brightening. Malin shivered, drawing her thin traperies around her bare throat. I glanced at the little rim of jewels that starred her hair, and said, you'd better take those off and hide them. They alone would be enough to have you hauled into an alley and strangled in this part of Charin. I hauled the bird-toy from my pocket, and slapped it on the greasy table, still wrapped in its silk. I don't suppose you know which of us this thing is set to kill. I know nothing about the toys. You seem to know plenty about the toy-maker. I thought so, until last night. I looked at the rigid, clamped mouth, and thought that if she were really as soft and as delicate as she looked, she would have wept. Then she struck her small hand on the tabletop and burst out. It's not a religion. It isn't even an honest movement for freedom. It's a front for smuggling and drugs and every other filthy thing. Believe it or not, when I left Shainsah, I thought Nebron was the answer to the way the Terrans were strangling us. Now I know there are worse things on Wolf than the Terran Empire. I've heard of Raq'al-Sainsah, and whatever you may think of Raq'al, he's too decent to be mixed up in anything like this. Suppose you tell me what's really going on, I suggested. She couldn't add much to what I knew already, but the last fragments of the pattern were beginning to settle into place. Raq'al, seeking the matter transmitter and some key to the non-human sciences of Wolf—I knew now what the city of the Silent Ones had reminded me of—had somehow crossed the path of the Toymaker. Everyn's words now made sense. You were clever at evading our surveillance for a while. Possibly, though I'd never know, Quinn had been keeping one foot in each camp working for Kir'al and for Everyn. The Toymaker, knowing of Raq'al's anti-Terran activities, had believed he would make a valuable ally and had taken steps to secure his help. Julie herself had given me the clue. He smashed Rindy's toys. Out of the context it sounded like the work of a madman. Now, having encountered Everyn's workshop, it made plain good sense. And I think I had known all along that Raq'al could not have been playing Everyn's game. He might have turned against Terror, though now I was beginning to even doubt that. And certainly he'd have killed me if he found me. But he would have done it himself and without malice. Killed without malice, that doesn't make sense in any of the languages of Terror. But it made sense to me. Meylin had finished her brief recitation and was drowsing, her head pillowed on the table. The reddish light was growing, and I realized that I was waiting for dawn as days ago I had waited for sunset in Shinsa with every nerve stretched to the breaking point. It was dawn of the third morning and this bird lying on the table before me must fly all far away in the Khasa, another would fly at Julie. I said there's some distance limitation on this one, I understand, since I have to be fairly near its object.  I don't suppose you'd have a shot at stealing the other one for me. She raised her head, eyes flashing. Why should you worry about Raq'al's wife, she flared, and for no good reason it occurred to me that she was jealous. I might have known Everyn wouldn't shoot in the dark. Raq'al's wife, that earth woman, what do you care for her? It seemed important to set her straight. I explained that Julie was my sister and saw a little of the tension fade from her face, but not all. Remembering the custom of the dry towns I was not wholly surprised when she added jealously. When I heard of your feud I guessed it was over that woman. But not in the way you think, I said. Julie had been part of it, certainly. Even then I had not wanted her to turn her back on her world. But if Raq'al had remained with terror, I would have accepted his marriage to Julie. Accepted it, I'd have rejoiced. God knows we'd been closer than brothers those years in the dry towns. And then, before Maylin's flashing eyes, I suddenly faced my secret hate, my secret fear—no. The quarrel had not been all Raq'al's doing. He had not turned his back and explained on terror. In some unrecognized fashion I had done my best to drive him away. And when he had gone I had banished a part of myself as well, and thought I could end the struggle by saying it didn't exist. And now, facing what I had done to all of us, I knew that my revenge, so long sought, so dearly cherished, must be abandoned. We still have to deal with the bird, I said. It's a gamble with all the cards wild. I could dismantle it and trust to luck that Wolf Illogic didn't include a tamper mechanism, but that didn't seem worth the risk. First I've got to find Raq'al. If I set the bird free and it killed him it wouldn't settle anything. For I could not kill Raq'al. Not now, because I knew life would be a worse punishment than death. But because, if I knew it now, if Raq'al died, Julie would die too. And if I killed him I'd be killing the best part of myself. Somehow Raq'al and I must strike a balance between our two worlds and try to build a new one from them. And I can't sit here and talk any longer. I haven't time to take you—I stopped. Remembering the Spaceport Café at the edge of the Khasa. There was a street shrine or matter transmitter right there, across the street from the Terran HQ, all these years. You know your way in the transmitters. You can go there in a second or two. She could warn Julie. Tell Magnuson. But when I suggested this, giving her a password that would take her straight to the top, she turned white. All jumps have to be made through the Master Shrine. I stopped and thought about that. Where is ever unlikely to be, right now? She gave a nervous shudder. He's everywhere. Rubbish! He's not omniscient.  He didn't even recognize me. He thought I was Raq'al. I wasn't too sure myself, but Malin needed reassurance. Or take me to the Master Shrine. I can find Raq'al in that scanning device of ever-ends. I saw refusal in her face and pushed on. If ever-ends there, I'll prove he's fallible enough with a scheme in his throat. And here I thrust the toy into her hand. Hang on to this, will you? She put it matter-effectly into her draperies. I don't mind that. But to the shrine her voice quivered, and I stood up and pushed at the table. Let's get going. Where's the nearest street shrine? No. No. I don't dare. You've got to. I saw the chaq who owned the place edging round the door again, and said, There's no use arguing, Malin. When she had readjusted her robes a little while ago, she had pinned them so that the flat sprawl of the neighbouring embroideries were over her breasts. I put a finger against them, not in a sensuous gesture, and said, The minute they see these they'll throw us out of here too. If you knew what I know of Nebron, you wouldn't want me to go near the master shrine again. There was that faint cocketishness in her sideways smile, and suddenly I realised that I didn't want her to. But she was not D'Alessa, and she could not sit in cold dignity while her world fell into ruin. Malin must fight for the one she wanted.  Then I said, in the shane sand which still comes to my tongue when moved or angry, Damn it, you're going! Have you forgotten that if it weren't for me you'd have been torn to pieces by that raving mob or something worse? That did it. She pulled away, and I saw again, beneath the veneer of petulant carcattery, that fierce and untameable insolence of the dry-tanner. The more fierce and arrogant in this girl, because she had burst her fettered hands free and shaken off the ruin of the past. I was seized with a wildly inappropriate desire to seize her, crush her in my arms, taste the red honey of that teasing mouth. The effort of mastering the impulse made me rough. I shoved at her and said, Come on, let's get there before Everyn does.  Only a few men lounged wearyly in the streets, as if the sun had sacked their energy. And always the pale, fleecy-haired children, human and furred non-human, played their mysterious games on the curbs and gutters, and staring at us with neither curiosity nor malice. Maylin was shaking when she set her feet into the patterned stones of the street shrine. Scared, Maylin? I know Everyn, you don't, but—her mouth twitched in a painful attempt at the old mischief. When I'm with a great and valourous earthman, carried out, I growled, and she giggled. We'll have to stand closer to me, a transmitter cement only for one person. I stooped and put my arms round her. Like this? Like this, she whispered, pressing herself against me. A staggering whirl of dizzy darkness swung around my head. The street vanished. After an instant the floor steadied and we stepped into the terminal room in the master shrine, under a skylight dim with a last red slant of sunset. Distant, hammering noises rang in my ears. Maylin whispered, Everyn's not here, but he might jump through it any second. I wasn't listening. Where is this place, Maylin? Where on the planet? No one knows but Everyn, I think. There are no doors. Anyone who goes in or out jumps through the transmitter. She pointed. The scanning device is in there. We'll have to go through the workroom. She was patting her cushioned robes into place, smoothing her hair with fastidious fingers. I don't suppose you have a comb. I have no time to go to my own. I'd known she was a vein and pampered rat, but this passed all reason, and I said so, exploding at her. She looked at me as if I wasn't quite intelligent. Little ones, my friend, noticed things. You were quite enough of a redneck, but I, Neveryn's priestess, walked through their workroom all blown out and looking like the tag end of an orgy, and had Karen abashed. I fished in my pocket and offered her a somewhat battered pocket comb. She looked at it distastefully, but used it to good purpose, smoothing her hair swiftly, rearranging her loose-pinned robe so that the worst of the tears and stains were covered, giving me, meanwhile, an artless and rather tempting view of some delicious curvature. She replaced the starred tiara on her ringlets, and finally opened the door of the workroom, and we walked through.  There were eyes. The round and human orbs of the dwarf chacks, the faceted stare of the prism eyes of the toys. The workroom wasn't a hundred feet long, but it felt longer than a good many miles I'd walked. Here and there the dwarfs murmured an obsequious greeting to Meilin, and she made some light-hearted answer. She had warned me to walk as if I had every right to be there, and I strode after her as if we were simply going to an agreed-on meeting in the next room. But I was drenched with cold sweat before the further door finally closed, safe and blessedly opaque, behind us. Meilin, too, was shaking with fright, and had put a hand on her arm. Steady kid. Where's the scanner? She touched the panel I'd seen. I'm not sure if I can focus it accurately. Ever and never let me touch it. This was a fine time to tell me that. How does it work? It's an adaption of the transmitter principle. It lets you see anywhere, but without jumping. It uses a tracer mechanism, like the one in the toys. If Raquel's electrical impulse pattern were on file, just a minute, she fished out the bird-toy and unwrapped it. Here's how we find out which of you this is keyed to. I looked at the fledgling bird, lying innocently in her palm, as she pushed aside the feathers, exposing a tiny crystal. If it's keyed to you, you'll see yourself in this, as if the screen were a mirror. If it's keyed to Raquel, she touched the crystal to the surface of the screen. Little flickers of snow waved and danced, and abruptly we were looking down from a height at the lean back of a man in a leather jacket. Slowly he turned. I saw the familiar set of his shoulders, saw the back of his head come into an aquiline profile, and the profile turned slowly into a scarred, seared mask, more hideously claw-mucked and disfigured than my own. Raquel, I muttered. Shift the focus if you can, Maelyn. Get a look out of the window or something. Sharon's a big city. If we could get a good look at a landmark. Raquel was talking soundlessly, his lips moving, as he spoke to someone out of sight range of the scanning device. Abruptly, Maelyn said, there. She had caught a window in the sight field of the pane. I could see a high pylon and two or three uprights that looked like a bridge, just outside. I said, it's the bridge of summer snows. I know where he is now. Turn it off, Maelyn. We can find him. I was turning away when Maelyn screamed, LOOK! Raquel had turned his back on the scanner, and for the first time I could see who he was talking to. A hunched cat-like shoulder twisted a sinuous neck, high-held head that was not quite human. Ever in, I swore. That does it. He knows now that I'm not Raquel, if you didn't know it all along. Come on, girl. We're getting out of here. This time there was no pretense of normality, as we dashed through the workroom. Fingers dropped from half-completed toys as they stared after us. Toys. I wanted to stop and smash them all. But if we hurried, we might find Raquel, and with luck we would find Everyn with him. And then I was going to bang their heads together. I'd reached a saturation-point on adventure. I'd had all I wanted. I realised that I'd been up all night, that I was exhausted. I wanted to murder and smash. I wanted to fall down somewhere and go to sleep, all at once. We banged the workroom door shut, and I took time to shove a heavy divan against it, blockading it. Malin stared. The little ones wouldn't harm me, she began. I'm sacrosanct. I wasn't sure. I had a notion her status had changed plenty, beginning when I saw her chained in drugged and standing under the hovering horror. But it didn't say so. Maybe. But there's nothing sacred about me. She was already inside the recess where the toad-god swatted. There is a street-shrine just beyond the bridge of summer snows. We can jump directly there. A brookly, she froze in my arms with a convulsive shudder. Everyn! Hoppy tight! He's jumping in! Quick! Space reeled around us, and then… Can you split instantaneousness into fragments? It didn't make sense. But so help me, that's what happened. And everything that happened occurred within less than a second. We landed in the street-shrine. I could see the pylon and the bridge, the rising sun of Charin. Then there was a giddy internal wrenching, a blast of icy air whistled round us, and we were gazing out at the polar mountains ringed in their eternal snow. Maylyn clutched at me. Pray! Pray to the gods of terror, if there are any. She clung so violently that it felt as if her small body were trying to push through me and come out the other side. I hung on tight. Maylyn knew what she was doing in the transmitter. I was just along for the ride, and I didn't relish the thought of being dropped off somewhere in that black limbo which reversed. We jumped again, the sickness of disorientation forcing a moan from the girl, and darkness shivered round us. I looked on an unfamiliar street of black night and dust-bleared stars. She whimpered. Everyn knows what I'm doing.  He can work the controls with his mind. Psychokinetics. I can do it a little, but I never dared. Oh, hang on tight! Then began one of the most amazing duels of a thought. Maylyn would make some tiny movement, and we would be falling, blind and dizzy through blackness. Halfway through the giddiness, a new direction would wrench us, and we would be thrust elsewhere and look out into a new street. One instant I smelled hot coffee from the spaceport cafe near the harse. An instant later, it was blinding noon, with crimson fronds waving above us and a dazzle of water. We flicked in and out of the salty air of Shainsa, glimpsed flowers on a Dylon street. Moonlight, noon, red twilight flickered and went, shot through with the terrible giddiness of hyperspace. Then suddenly I caught a second glimpse of the bridge in the pylon. A moment's oversight had landed us for an instant in Sharin. The blackness started to reel down, but my reflexes are fast, and I made one swift, scrabbling step forward. We lurched, sprawled, locked together on the stones of the bridge of summer snows. Battered and bruised and bloody, we were still alive and where we wanted to be. I lifted Maylyn to her feet. Her eyes were dazed with pain. The ground swayed and rocked under our feet as we fled along the bridge. At the far end I looked up at the pylon, judging from its angle we couldn't be more than a hundred feet from the window through which I'd seen that landmark in the scanner. In this street there was a wine shop, a silk market, and a small private house. I walked up and banged on the door, silence. I knocked again and had time to wonder if we'd find ourselves explaining things to some uninvolved stranger. Then I heard a child's high voice and a deep, familiar voice hushing it. The door opened, just a crack, to reveal part of a scarred face. It drew into a hideous grin, then relaxed. I thought it might be you, Cargill. You've taken at least three days longer than I figured getting here. Come on in, said Raqal Sansar. End of Chapter 14.


in our area I guess. Yeah, you know like we're awaiting the sheaths when we're shearing. So you shear them? Yeah, we always monitor what goes on. Animals get injured? Do they get, yeah you have to shear them? They've been selectively bred to produce more wool, haven't they these sheaths? Morenoes. Like over time they've been bred to produce more wool than they usually would in like a natural circumstance. Not in the last 150 years, not in Australia, they're not bred for wool. But what do you breed them for? Do you use them for meat or something?  Yeah, they get sold for meat where there's stew, the where there's stew, and then the rest, they're a part of our live program. So they're a part of our cropping program. So they help to keep weeds down and they help us with our rotations, so that we've got good soils. You don't send them to slaughterhouses? Yeah, we certainly do. So when you put them on that, and you've seen what happens to them in the slaughterhouse? You can't keep an eye on them every single animal? I guess you can't keep an eye on them the whole time. And you can look after them as well as you can, but not everybody obviously. When we send them to the slaughterhouse, they're essentially getting either bolt gunned in their head or electrically stunned and then they're having their head cut off and sliced into pieces. So from the animal's perspective, we don't think it's necessary, like when we can live perfectly healthy without eating animals or using animals. I mean, there's other ways we can make money too. We try to talk to farmers about alternatives, instead of using these animals for their bodies. You know how intelligent sheep are and that they feel pain, they want to live. They'd probably be terrified in the place of slaughter. There's blood everywhere, it smells of fear and feces in there. A bit inside a slaughterhouse, it's not a very nice place. I think some would certainly are better than others. And the ones that like Wampo, their standards are extremely high because they're specifically for international top quality meat. They say that, they say their standards are the best in the world, but do they adhere to their standards all the time? Who knows? Who knows? But even let's talk about the best standard for killing animals, the height of humane slaughter. Let's talk about that. Even then, the animal is losing their life, a very short life they have in relationship to the cows, cows live to 20, how long does sheep live to? How long does sheep live to? Can live to 10, 11 years. When do they get killed around half their age? Two years old. It depends. Say three years old. They're still really young. Or later on it just depends. So from the individual animal's eyes? It's hard, so it's hard.  No, no, no. You're not vegetarian? No, because the egg and dairy industry, obviously they kill all their animals, they exploit all their animals, and we're vegans, we don't use anything from animals. Yeah, also you're vegan. Yeah, so everyone here is vegan. It's policy, you can't advocate for animals without using their bodies. Which makes sense. What do you think about it? Honestly, be honest, I don't mind. I've heard everything, if you completely straight up. I do get frustrated as a farmer, and some of the films and stuff they get shown from Peter are completely out of bullshit. They're doing the wrong thing by themselves because farmers, good farmers, support Peter. And then they're showing like dummies instead of like sheep. Do you have evidence for that? They have, they got pulled up on it. Showing dummies. It was on Facebook, and they put forward this footage and saying that it was a sheep. So do you think any of these are dummies? No. Okay, so if this is happening even once, even once in this industry, then the whole industry is what? No, it shouldn't affect the whole industry. I don't agree with that. Like do you think a bolt gun in the cow's head, if they had a beautiful happy life, do you think that at the end of the day is humane? I think it's probably that's a better way. Wouldn't you prefer that than they were slaughtered? Yeah, but would you say that that's humane? I would. There are changes on our farm, and when animals are hurt and injured, that we actually have to do that, and it's not a nice job. But, you know, and the vet will tell you something.  That they really would, you know, the best option is to do that. Is that what these animals are getting? No, but I'm saying so. So you're saying if that makes it sound dramatic, it's a bolted head, but it's better to be honest. It's like getting shot in the head, really, isn't it? Then we put down other animals. That are suffering. That's when it becomes justified. But if they're not suffering, do you think it's... But it's a quick way, so it's not a bad way, it's a quick way.  Yes. It means to show compassion. Yes. Well, in one sense it's showing compassion, because there's a worse way than it makes it humane. What if there was, like, if we let them live? That's what we're asking. If we let them live, we don't use them. We don't breed them into existence to use their families and separate them, you know, like... And look, you just don't hear what you're saying. It's just... Well, it's probably part of your... You've been eating meat for... Millions? Millions? We've been killing each other for millions of years as well. You know, like, I guess we used to eat a lot of meat, like our parents' generations, didn't they? It's all passed down, tradition. And we don't now, but we would have two or three, you know, nights where we just... we have vegetarians. Yeah. But in their day, so it is... It's progressing. It is progressing, yeah. The thing is, if no one bought lamb, you wouldn't be growing these sheep on your property, hey? It would make it harder, but then in one sense... You would chew something else? But in one sense, it's better off that I'm doing that because I'm not having to spray the amount of chemicals that farmers without that do because they have to control weeds and that we're doing a more... We're doing crop rotation and everything after the land as well. So, you know, it's, you know... I understand, like, farmers are, like, brought up into this sort of farming culture, you know?  Yeah. Do you think that there could be a more ethical alternative than a bolt gun in the head for these animals? Say, not using them at all? And maybe alternatives for farmers even that could be just as lucrative? Because I don't know if there's that much money in, you know, animal farming, really. Like, chickens are worth 50 cents each or something like that. Oh, okay, so you don't need to exceed that? No. But I was thinking about chicken farming. I thought that was pretty cool. And I'll take them out until you've got to go make them run and you get the Mara dogs to look after them and they've, you know, they're not in these bloody chants that they're in now. Well, that's better, but it's... And we're giving them the, what do they say, um, free range? Free range is, like, our households have got more than a free range as well. Free range is a free range.  I know. I know there's no real framework. Sounds really cool. And it's really not. They can keep them in sheds and stuff with free range. Like, if we steered away from using animals at all, like, we wouldn't be trying to find this humane way of doing the wrong thing.  They get killed, for me. Do you know what I mean? When they're not of use to us. At the farm, they don't. I just let them live their life. You've got a few in the backyard. Yeah. The rule is... If they didn't lay eggs, would you still have them? Oh, yeah, I like them.  Yeah, but I wish that I... I actually wish that I ate my own chickens rather than eating the chickens. The ones that you love? Well, yeah.  So you're looking at it from a health perspective, not from the chickens' perspective. What if they just lived out their life? This is a very controversial... No, come to me. Talk to me about it. I used to think the same way. Not too long ago. But then I started looking at it through their eyes, and it changed a lot the way I see things. Because if that was me there, how would I want to be treated? Would I think that that's humane? Probably not. So, I understand... They also don't... They really don't have the same brain because in a way... You have to provide evidence for that because I've seen cows learning their name, coming when they're called. I've seen cows crying on a slaughterhouse truck on the way to be killed.  But they claim to be the most humane method in Australia. So, the most humane method for stunning pigs in Australia is, well, it's Victoria, South Australia. They would have them in Perth. I'm not too sure about Perth though. I don't know. Do you know where pigs get built in Perth? Or is it right? There's two types. It's the forks, and it's a bit harder because they run around and it's harder to effectively stun them. But what they do is they put them in this cage. Where is it? It's a cage and they drop them down into CO2 gas. And they used to think that they just fell asleep. But some activists went in there and left cameras in there. And they realised that they were thrashing and screaming and terrified. And what was happening is the CO2 reacts with saliva and moisture inside their bodies. And it creates, like, carbonic acid.  So, horrible way to go. But that is the height of humane slaughter. In Australia, UK, worldwide, for pork. Without those cameras, we would never have known that. We would have just thought sleeping gas, you know?