“Dispatch damaged property. Five days discipline for instigator.”
Five days discipline! Flint needed no survey of his memory to comprehend what that meant. For Øro it would be extremely unpleasant—but for Flint it could mean disaster. Every day he stayed here in this alien body meant a further diminution of his Kirlian aura. Eventually he would lose his identity, and become Øro in fact as well as form. The Earth authorities thought he was good for several months—but they weren’t sure. Not until he completed his mission and returned, could they measure the actual depletion of aura. Meanwhile, all they could be sure of was that he had better not waste any time when out of his natural body. Five days of starvation and punishment pain, on top of the three his body had just undergone—that could be very bad trouble, and was not worth the risk.
Φiw was setting the punishment-box on $mg’s frequency. Every Slave had a code imprinted on his torso, and any box could be tuned to that code, so that it sent its current through that specific body and no other. Φiw set the dial to twelve.
“No!” $mg screamed, scrambling toward him, the broken arm dangling. “I’ll recover! I’ll recover fast!”
But Φiw activated the box. $mg of Y◊jr stiffened in utter agony, crashing helplessly into the dust. For five seconds the torture continued, ten, fifteen, without letup—until the Slave relaxed.
$mg of Y◊jr was dead. The unremitting maximum-intensity pain, continued beyond the toleration point of life, had wiped out his mind, and with it his body. It was a terrible way to die.
The way Øro had died, vacating his body for Flint.
Φiw turned. “Now, Øro of N*kr,” he said, beginning to retune the box.
Flint kicked the box right out of his hands. There was a moan of shock from the surrounding Slaves. Flint dived for the box, knowing that he could never escape as long as it was in working order and within range of him. He picked it up and smashed it down against a rock.
“The band!” someone cried. It was ¢le. “Don’t let him call!”
But Φiw was already calling, “Emergency!” he said. “Slave out of control.”
Flint whirled about and charged him.
“Identity,” the pleasant Master voice, replied, unruffled.
Flint caught the band with one hand and shoved Φiw back with the other. The communicator ripped off the foreman’s wrist. “Øro of N*kr!” Flint yelled into the speaker. “Oro!” This time he omitted the Slave-intonation, no mere breach of etiquette, but a crime. “Shove it up your blowpipe!”
That would have been a vaguely obscene insult to a human being. It was not vague at all when addressed to a Master of Canopus, for this species really did have pipes through which digestive refuse was expelled under pressure, or “blown,” in crude vernacular.
Then Flint smashed the band and whirled to face the stunned Slaves. “Who joins me in freedom?” he challenged them.
“I do!” ¢le cried.
But she was the only one.
“Let’s get out of here!” Flint said to her, disgusted. “They can’t all be vegetables on this planet.”
“The hills,” she said. “There are FreeSlaves there—wildmen. If we can make it before the Masters come—”
The Slaves all seemed stunned, afraid to either hinder or help the rebels.
Except for Foreman Φiw. Stripped of his punishment-box and his Master communicator, he charged Flint barehanded.
Flint sidestepped the clumsy lunge and tripped him. Φiw fell to the ground, bashed his head, and lay still.
And Flint realized: It was too easy. Φiw had not gotten to be foreman by being clumsy or stupid. Why hadn’t he simply ordered the loyal Slaves to tackle Øro in a group and overpower him?
Because he wanted Øro and ¢le to escape? Naturally he could not permit this openly; his own position and perhaps his life would be forfeit So he had made a show of obstruction, blundering into the fray exactly as $mg had, and taken his dive. Everyone present had seen him try. So he had fouled it up; what else could be expected of a mere Slave?
Would the Masters see through the act? If so, Φiw’s own punishment would not be token. “You play a dangerous game, Foreman,” Flint muttered.
They fled across the fields of burl. “You know the odds are against us,” Flint said as they ran.
“Maybe not,” she said, breathing hard. “The Masters don’t realize Slaves can think. They’ll underestimate us—and maybe Φiw will stall them long enough.”
So she had noted the foreman’s act too! Φiw—why would he allow a dangerous Slave to escape, if he had not understood what Flint had tried to tell him? And if he had understood, why hadn’t he taken Øro directly to the Masters for more careful interrogation?
The question elicited its own answer: Because Φiw didn’t want Flint to make contact with the Masters. The Foreman was ultimately loyal to his own kind; he wanted Flint either silenced or with the FreeSlaves. So he had waited on events, cautiously, not risking his own position—and had acted when he had to.
Waited on events? Surely the Foreman had selected ¢le of A[th] to feed Øro, knowing she was a rebel at heart, untamed, and that she was looking for a new man, a strong one. Very cunning!
¢le made a half-choked little scream. Flint looked back.
A Master’s saucer was skimming over the field toward them.
There was no way to outrun it, and there was no concealment here in the field. Their trail through the burl was obvious, and the saucer could crack the speed of sound when under full power in the open.
Øro’s memory was no help; it merely informed him that the saucers were equipped with pain beams that could strike right through foliage, rocks, or any other cover to incapacitate the fugitives instantly—without damage. These beams were all-purpose; they did not need to be tuned like the boxes. The Masters had had centuries of experience at this sort of thing!
The Masters were the very authorities Flint was sent to talk to—but at this point they would dismiss anything he said as the ravings of a rebellious Slave. Probably Φiw had made a report that suggested Øro was mad, because of the overdose of punishment pain. A neat maneuver by the Foreman.
And Flint was increasingly uncertain he wanted to contact the Masters officially. Maybe it would be better to give the Slaves a break. Sphere Sol had abolished slavery as uncivilized centuries ago, and if it aligned with these slaves—
“Are we going to fight, Øro?” ¢le inquired breathlessly.
“Yes!” he snapped, though at the moment he couldn’t see how.
She smiled, though she was obviously terrified. “On A[th], they threw rocks.”
Rocks? Against a supersonic saucer?”
“The Masters thought maybe they were bombs, so they put the shield up, and then they couldn’t use the beams.”
Flint saw it. “Beautiful, ¢le!” he cried.
“I know it,” she said, patting her fur in place. Slave females were vain about their fur, even as human girls—no, humans had hair. “Only one problem.”
Now the saucer was upon them: a bowl-shaped flier large enough to hold two or three Masters. Flint dropped to the ground, scrambling for stones. “What problem?” he demanded, searching desperately underneath the burl vines.
“No rocks here,” she explained.
This was a cultivated field. Naturally there were no rocks!
Still, Flint had had occasion before to consider combating Space Age technology with Stone Age technology. He had come to the conclusion that a smart Paleolith could prevail against a stupid spaceman. Could, not would. It depended a lot on the individual circumstance. This particular situation was not what he would have chosen for the test.