“I would,” she said dubiously.
More memories of Slave protocol. There were no permanent liaisons, by order of the Masters, for the family structure provoked loyalties to other than the Masters. But there were many temporary connections. A girl as lovely as this would always have a man. Flint’s interest was in making connections with independent-minded Slaves, so that he could explain his situation and use their belief as a lever to compel the attention of the Masters. His heart was loyal to Honeybloom, back on Outworld, of course. But how could ¢le know that?
In fact, it would look suspicious if he failed to take note of her attractiveness. Better to play the game, until his mission was achieved.
That meant he would have to deal with her boyfriend. “Who?” The very intonation of his query implied contempt for that about-to-be-divulged name.
“$mg of Y◊jr.”
Once again, Øro’s memory obligingly culled the essence: Y◊jr was a rough tribe! To a man, those natives were warriors. And Øro’s body had been decimated by the torture. Well, it had to be done. “I will meet him.”
¢le put the last morsel in his mouth with a flourish, obviously pleased. It must have been a chore to get such a commitment, and that explained her readiness to approach a convict. How else could she rid herself of an unwanted boyfriend—one who could probably pulverize anyone else she might fancy?
As the darkness closed in, the stars came out. At last Flint could orient himself. He knew he was in Sphere Canopus, because that was where he had been sent, but as it was similar to Sphere Sol in size, with a diameter of over two hundred light-years, he could be anywhere within it. Probably fairly near Canopus itself, within a few parsecs.
The stellar configuration was vastly different from anything he had seen within his own Sphere’s skies, of course, but still there were identifiers. There was a bright-red star that was surely huge Betelgeuse, and a bluish one that had to be Rigel, one of the brightest stars anywhere in this segment of the galaxy. That meant that between them should be—yes, there it was, just below Rigeclass="underline" the triple lights of Orion’s Belt. Those three second-magnitude blue-white stars in a line, Alnitac, Alnilam, and Mintaka. Each fifteen hundred to sixteen hundred light-years from Sol, and about the same from Canopus. His shift in viewpoint had removed them from between Betelgeuse and Rigel, but the constellation was certain. He knew where he was.
He contemplated the new configurations, doing a kind of mental triangulation from the Belt, and gradually the finer details fell into place. He was on a planet circling a star on the far side of Canopus. Canopus itself was extraordinarily bright—triple the apparent magnitude of Sirius from Earth (that was not the proper way to express it, but he hardly cared at this moment)—and Sirius was Earth’s brightest star. It demonstrated the need for galactic orientation points, for in any area there would be a number of small stars that were very bright because of their proximity. Bless the galaxy for providing Betelgeuse, Rigel, and Orion’s Belt!
Sol itself, of course, could not be seen. Even if he had been able to view that section of the galactic sky, Sol would not be visible without a telescope. Over two hundred light-years distant, Sol would be down to ninth magnitude, and bright Sirius down to five and one-half magnitude—just visible.
For a moment he visualized Canopus as seen from Earth. Canopus was in the constellation Argo, the Boat. In fact it was on the keel of the ship—the ship of the Argonauts. The mythological hero Jason had sailed in this ship with his fifty Argonauts, seeking the famous Golden Fleece and having other glorious adventures. He had vanquished a dragon and sown dragon’s teeth that sprouted from the ground as warriors. He married a king’s daughter, the enchantress Medea—a woman of splendidly mixed qualities. This keel-star had an adventurous and violent history, in the lore of Earth, and was a fitting Sphere for mortal individual combat.
Flint slept between his periodic doses of punishment pain, accepting them as necessary for now, and allowed his wastes to drop on the turf at his feet as they had to. Soon it would be over. He did not try again to inform Φiw of his true status—but neither did he plead contrition. And at dawn he was released—to work all day in the fields.
$mg of Y◊jr was every bit as imposing as anticipated. He was gross and ugly, with the scars of many past encounters on his torso, and his eyes were fierce. Flint was glad that Øro had a big, powerful body; he would need it. He had spent the day beside ¢le, wrestling the burls from their tough vines, recovering the strength sapped by punishment. He was still weak, but not critically so.
Memory told him how Øro had handled such occasions in the past. He had bulled ahead with such determination and heedlessness of pain that even stronger opponents had stepped back. Had he been smarter, Øro could have been a good Slave leader, perhaps a foreman. But he had never been able to hold women long, because he lacked the wit to keep them entertained and lacked the will to hold them against their inclinations. Thus he was not regarded as much of a threat; it was easier to let Øro have a woman as he was sure to lose her.
This time, however, he was up against a Y◊jr. Pride would compel the other to try to prevail, and the innate sadism of that tribe would cause him to hurt Øro as much as he could get away with.
The meet was supervised by Foreman Φiw. This was to ensure that neither worker was damaged unduly. The Masters permitted these encounters, but always acted to preserve their property. Pain was allowed, even encouraged, but not mutilation.
On the occasions Flint had fought on Outworld, he had always won. This was due partly to his strength, speed, and extraordinary coordination, and partly the advice in martial art the Shaman had provided. But his fighting was effective mainly because of his brain. He was capable of rapidly analyzing his opponent’s pattern and capitalizing on its flaws.
$mg came at him like a wrestler. Flint stepped aside and caught the Y◊jr with a backhand chop to the skull. It was a hard blow, and his hand went numb; he had intended to go for the neck. But that was his human experience, suffering in the translation. For Øro’s arm was jointed differently, and the fingers did not form a true fist. And $mg’s head was not solid bone in back; it rose into a cartilage crest. Somehow these differences were more apparent to the sense of touch than to the sense of sight. As a result, Flint had actually hurt himself worse than he had hurt $mg.
But there was a hum of amazement through the audience, for Øro was not behaving the way Slaves usually did in combat. In fact, this strike at the hard head with the soft hand resembled a gesture of supreme contempt.
Flint saw Φiw watching him closely. Well, let the foreman be surprised; Flint had tried to tell him the truth!
Stung by the fancied taunt, $mg came at him like a boxer. Flint dodged his first swing, spun about, trapped his moving hand and twisted the arm into an armlock. This should be a submission hold, good for some satisfying pain.
$mg tried to jerk away. Flint bore down, throwing himself to the ground and carrying the trapped arm with him. Suddenly there was a crack, and $mg screamed. Flint had broken his arm.
He hadn’t intended to. A human arm would not have broken. But again, he had misjudged the alien structure. The elbows bent the opposite way from those of human beings.
Φiw stepped forward, eyeing the damage. He spoke into his Slave-band. “Property damage report, sir.”
The Master responded at once in his musical tones. “Details.”
“Routine meet, sir. For favor of female. Upper appendage broken.”
“Salvageable?”
“Joint. Uneconomic convalescence.”
“Intentional?”
Φiw peered at Flint, obviously unable to figure out how someone as stupid as this had fought like that. “Accident.”