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  A face matched by his own.

  A gamble. Each time he fought in the arena it was a gamble. Not the calculated weighing of matched advantage but a blind, helpless dependency on the workings of chance. A pool of blood could cause him to slip and lose his balance and, in that moment, his life. A buried lump of excreta, a smear of oil, sweat falling to slick a surface. A badly adjusted spotlight the weakness inherent in the metal of his blade, his own nervous reaction to unexpected stimuli, all could cause his defeat. Things against which speed and skill were not enough. One day his luck would desert him. Today? Would it be today?

  "Look alive there!" Delman came storming through the pens. "Get that mess cleaned up. Have the next contenders ready. You!" He glared at Dumarest. "Stand up, dummy!" He nodded as, woodenly, Dumarest obeyed. "Meat," he sneered. "But you'll serve. Ever used a spear? A net?"

  Dumarest stood, staring, making no answer.

  "You hold them one in each hand. With the net you trap and with the spear you thrust. You won't need that." He stooped to snatch the knife from where it rested in the boot, snarled as Dumarest dropped his hand to clamp fingers around the thick, hairy wrist. "All right, if that's the way you feel about it Chonllen! Get this creep into position! Move!"

  A gate led from the pens to the arena and Dumarest halted at the opening looking at the circling wall, the tiers of faces peering down from the stands. Rows of faces all blurred in the light streaming from the dome above, a clear brilliance stemming from artificial suns. The floor of the arena was thick with sand, tiny motes of silica catching and reflecting the light so that it seemed to watch with a host of dispassionate eyes. Facing him was another gate; a black mouth which yawned with hidden menace.

  "Right." Chonllen handed him a spear and a net. "You go out there. You wait. When something comes at you you kill it. Do that and you win the prize. Five thousand on the clock but you lose ten kren for every second you delay." He pointed to where a wide-faced clock with thick, black hands rested against the far wall. "When the dial turns green the countdown starts. Luck!"

  Dumarest moved forward into the arena, fumbling the net and spear, apparently clumsy and accentuating his poor coordination. An act to increase the odds against him and time for Kemmer to place his bets. Time too for him to gain the distance and examine his weapons.

  The spear was broad-bladed, eighteen inches of edged and pointed steel set on a seven-foot shaft of polished wood. The net was of coarse mesh weighted at the edges with leaden pellets. A thing requiring skill to handle and Dumarest held it like a whip in his left hand, the spear poised in his right.

  Beneath his boots the sand rasped like small clinkers, grains rubbing, edges honing one the other, the small sound more felt than heard.

  Still the clock showed a white face.

  Time, he knew, drawn out to increase the tension, to sharpen the anticipation of the crowd. Time too for him to assess the odds. To win anything at all he would have to kill whatever was sent against him within a few minutes. After eight he would be fighting for nothing except the chance to save his life. A desperate man would rush in, staking everything on the initial attack, trusting to surprise and speed to defeat his adversary. The net would be used to snare and hold, the spear to thrust-and the roar of the crowd would acclaim a classic victory. But such a man would be a fool.

  Dumarest looked at the clock, still glowing with a nacreous lustre, then at the gaping mouth of the far gate. As yet he didn't know whom or what his opponent would be but he guessed it would be a beast, not a man. A man would have appeared by now, be moving, weaving in the preliminary dance heralding attack. The ritualistic but essential period when chances were calculated and position gained. When weaknesses were looked for and strengths observed. A moment loved by those who appreciated skill as well as blood.

  A beast, then, but of what kind?

  A bell rang with a sudden, nerve-numbing jar and, as the face of the clock turned green, nightmare came rushing from the gate.

  In her seat Ellain Kiran turned, clutching at the arm of her escort, voice shrill with excitement as her fingers dug hard against flesh.

  "Yunus! A sannak! And it's big! Big!"

  Too big for any lone man to stand a chance against it especially a dull, half-witted creature such as had stood waiting. He turned, ignoring the pressure of the woman's fingers, looking for the plump man who had sought wagers. Kemmer was busy, picking his clients, firm as to the odds.

  "My lord?"

  "I back the beast. Will you take five to one against the man?"

  "Seven would be better, my lord."

  "Six." Yunus Ambalo was impatient. "Thirty against five in thousands. A deal?" He turned back to face the arena as Kemmer nodded, confident the bet was as good as won. "And you, my dear? A thousand that the man falls within two minutes?"

  "Accepted." She glanced at the clock then back at Dumarest. Suddenly, against all logic, she felt that he would win.

  It was a confidence he didn't share. The creature was fast, sand pluming from beneath the long, tapered body as it writhed toward him. A moment to study detail and then he had sprung to one side, net lashing, spear levelled, the point rasping against a silicon-loaded hide as the beast turned and snapped with snouted jaws lined with flat, grinding teeth.

  A thing from the desert. Life adapted to live even in the hostile environment of Harge. The body, snake-like, was segmented and scaled. The head was a conical projection split into the vise-like jaws. The eyes were covered with thick plates of transparent tissue. There was no observable ears, no feet, no neck, no weak points which Dumarest could recognize. Twelve feet long, three high, the creature was a mass of flexible sinew and iron-like muscle.

  He jumped as the tail lashed toward him, landing to jump again, boots hitting the creature's back, gaining leverage to lift his body again in a long spring to one side. He'd turned in the air and landed, the net splaying from his left hand, the mesh badly aimed yet falling over the snout. Immediately he stabbed with the spear, the point glancing from the protective covering of an eye, skidding over the scaled carapace. An attack which took time and only his speed and agility saved his legs from been snapped by the vicious blow of the tail. Again he dodged, ran to the far end of the arena, ran again as the sannak writhed over the sand directly toward him.

  The clock registerd the passing of forty seconds.

  Four hundred kren clipped from the prize but Dumarest wasn't thinking of that. If he'd been the slow-moving clod he'd appeared he would be down by now, flesh and bone crushed by the sannak's jaws. No real contest and he wondered why Matpius had matched him against the beast The answer lay in the avid faces ringing the arena; their desire for blood, the spectacle of butchery.

  He jumped again, pluming sand rising to catch his throat and sting his eyes, grit sent to fog the air as the snake-like thing lashed itself forward with sweeps of body and tail. Again Dumarest lashed out with the net, snarling as the mesh failed to open, trying again then throwing it aside so as to leave both hands free to manipulate the spear. To face the creature was useless, scaled and protected it couldn't be harmed with the weapons he possessed, but if he could get behind it he might stand a chance. The scales would overlap and the spear could be thrust between them. Hurt, the thing could turn and expose its stomach and, if that was softer than its back, the contest would still be won.

  A chime and the first minute had passed, a sound lost in the roar of the crowd as Dumarest jumped again, feeling the rasp of the lashing tail against the sole of his boot, landing to thrust the spear beneath a scale. Tissue held then yielded, green ichor welling from between the plates. A minor wound but on which convulsed the sannak so that, as if impelled by a spring. Dumarest rose high into the air, to turn, to land sprawling on the sand as his feet slipped on buried slime. A moment in which he was helpless and one in which the sannak attacked.

  "God!" Ellain felt the contraction of her stomach, the chill which warred with mounting, sensual heat. "No! Dear God, no!"

 
She could see it now in imagination as she had seen it in reality before. The long snout thrusting, jaws parting, closing to the shriek of the victim, the crunch of bone. The jerk and then retreat as the severed limb was dragged free to be eaten while the hapless man watched blood jet from severed arteries to stain the stand. And then the rest, the crawling, the pleading, the terror and the final, horrible, slobbering death.

  "No!" she cried again. "No!"

  It almost seemed he heard her. Certainly he moved and with a speed which blurred his limbs so that one moment he sprawled helpless, the next he was standing, feet distant, the spear recovered and reflecting splinters of brilliance as again it thrust at the emerald stain on the scales.

  "Clever," mused Yunus. "He's discovered a vulnerable point and is concentrating on it. A pity that he is wasting his time."

  "Time," she said and looked at the clock. "You owe me a thousand."

  A debt he acknowledged with a jerk of his head, his attention once again concentrated on the man and the beast in the arena. The creature had been made to bleed but from a point tough with inner sinew and flexible bone. A thing he knew but which the man could not. How long would it take him to change his pattern of attack?

  The third bell and Dumarest realized he was doing nothing more than irritating the sannak. Backing, spear held before him, he reassessed the problem. The creature was armored, protected against winds and dust which could strip the surface of stone. It was at home in an environment in which no unprotected man could live for a minute. But no creature was totally invulnerable. Nothing alive was proof against injury and death.

  He moved as again the snake-like body lunged toward him. Jumping he landed on the far side and noted how quickly the thing could turn. As it twisted the scales gaped, lifting to compensate, providing a target for anyone standing at the rear. Useless information; he was alone, what had to be done must be done by his own effort. Not the scales, then, and the stomach hugged the sand. The eyes were protected. The mouth?

  It had to be the mouth.

  He waited, taking his time, ignoring the clock, the chiming bell which registered the dimunition of the prize he didn't expect to win. It would be prize enough if he walked alive from the sand. A bonus if he remained unhurt.

  "Move!" A woman screamed from the stands. "Attack, you coward!"

  A soft and pampered creature who would fly into a panic at the slightest injury. One matched by a man who added his own insults, made brave by the comforting knowledge that he would never have to answer for his sneers. Dumarest ignored them as he ignored everything but the creature before him.

  Like himself it had slowed down, the initial fury replaced by an instinctive caution. Strength and energy now had to be husbanded against the time of supreme effort when life and death hung in the balance and could be decided by an extra modicum of stamina. And yet it was a beast while he was a man. If it had the brawn he had the brain.

  He tempted it, moving, retreating, the spear a darting irritation at the eyes, the jaws. Jaws which parted to snap, to miss, to snap again a little wider than before. To reveal a throat ridged and lined like the maw of the grinder it was. A target at which he stabbed, steel vanishing from sight, the point a lance which stung and was withdrawn, teeth rasping over the blade as Dumarest jerked it from between the jaws.

  Again, green staining the polished metal. A third time and then, with a sudden rush, the thing was on him, following the point instead of withdrawing from it, the small but cunning brain learning from experience. Dumarest spun, the spear hampering his movements, throwing him off-balance as sand dragged at his feet. Holding him as the jaws parted to close like a vise on his boot just below the left knee.

  "Earl!" Kemmer had seen and stood, stunned, his face was a mask of horror. "Earl!"

  A cry lost in the thunder of the crowd rose, yelling, scenting the end. Once a sannak had hold the outcome was predictable.

  But the jaws had closed on toughened plastic, not flesh, the material giving protection and winning time. Dumarest darted his hand down to his knife, whipped it from its sheath, thrust it edge upward between the jaws, the metal hard against his boot. Now, if they continued to close, the jaws would bite on edged steel, the blade serving to protect the limb. Before the beast could jerk its head and throw him to the floor Dumarest had slipped the shaft of the spear so as to rest against the knife, one hand on each side of the snout, parted, the left heaving while the right pressed down. Opposed leverage applied to the shaft resting between the jaws, wrenching them apart-if his strength was great enough, if the shaft would hold.

  He felt the wood begin to bend, heard the crunch of teeth driving into the yielding material and strain harder, sweat running into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. Shortening his grip he applied the full strength of back and loins, snarling as the teeth dug deeper into the wood. If it broke, if the beast should think to throw him, if the knife should slip and his leg be crushed-it all depended on the shaft, his own determination, his own strength.

  The clock chimed and was ignored. The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting, recognizing the precarious balance on which Dumarest's life rested. Then, as the knife fell from between the jaws, the silence was broken by a sigh. A sigh which rose to a shout as the boot was withdrawn from between the clamping teeth, a roar which thundered as, releasing the shaft, Dumarest sprang back, dodging the rush of the sannak, stumbling, recovering as he dived for his knife.

  To rise with it in his hand, his only weapon now, the spear shattered, broken.

  "Earl!" Ellain rose as she shouted the name she had learned from the plump man. Her trained voice was a shaft of searing brilliance in a turgid darkness. "Earl! My champion! Win, Earl! Win!"

  He heard, ignoring the cry as he ignored the others, turning as he faced the beast, jerking back his head to save his eyes from a shower of grit flung toward him by the lashing tail.

  A moment in which he glanced upward to see a shimmering flame of scarlet. The glory of hair caught in a vagrant beam and turned into a halo of unforgettable hue. Saw too the face shadowed beneath; the pale, almost translucent skin, the full slash of the generous mouth, the emerald pools of wide-set eyes.

  Kalin!

  A moment only and then he was facing the sannak again knife poised, boots rasping the grit to gain traction. He saw the creature turn, the jaws gape and darted to one side as the thing charged. A maneuver repeated as he made his final play-to wear the beast down, to wait until it slowed, then to wound it again and again until, dead or hurt, it would give him mastery.

  A plan which failed as, jumping to avoid a charge, he felt his foot slip, his ankle turning as he trod on a patch of buried slime. Then came the hammer-like blow of the tail which sent him slamming against the wall. The stars which burst in his eyes, the pain, the endless fall into darkness.

  Chapter Four

  Waking was a dream in which he rose slowly through layers of ebon chill, counting seconds, waiting for eddy currents to warm his body, electronic stimulus to activate his heart and lungs, drugs to eliminate the agony of returning circulation. A nightmare of traveling low, occupying a cabinet meant for the transportation of beasts, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

  He had ridden like that too often, wondering each time if he would wake, welcoming each resurrection as it came.

  Dreams. A plethora of faces which swam out of darkness to blur and vanish even as formed. One more stubborn which remained. A ghost with scarlet hair forming an aureole about a familiar face. The lips, the chin, the bottomless pools of the eyes. A sight which had started him, creating the moment of inattention which could have cost him his life.

  Had he really seen her?

  Could Kalin still be alive?

  He turned, muttering, reliving old memories, old pain. Seeing again the woman he had known, the wonderful, beautiful thing she had been. Long gone now, vanished, only the gift she had given him remaining in his mind. The se
cret stolen from the Cyclan for which they hunted him from world to world. The key which would give them the domination of the galaxy.

  "Dumarest!" The voice was dull, muffled. "Earl Dumarest!"

  A voice backed by small, familiar sounds; a rustle of garments, of glass tapping against plastic, the soft susuration of a fan circulating air. A touch against his upper lip and acrid odors stung his nostrils.

  "Dumarest. Wake up, man. Wake up!"

  A command coupled with a reenforcing of his identity; standard practice when reviving a man who had been subjected to shock. Again the odors stung his nostrils, banishing the last shreds of sleep, but it was pleasant to lie and feel the pulse and surge of life. A comfort to stretch and feel the smooth embrace of sheets against his naked skin, the yield of a pneumatic mattress. The voice grew sharp with impatience.

  "Can you hear me? Answer if you can. Answer!"

  "I can hear you." Dumarest opened his eyes and looked at the face above his own. A young, smooth face, the features thinly precise, the eyes detached, the mouth a little too full but time would eradicate the hint of caring humanity. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"

  The eyes blinked. "You are unusual. I would have bet you would have asked where you were."

  "I know where I am. On Harge and this is a hospital. How long?"

  "A day; an hour for diagnosis and examination, two hours slow time, the rest drug-induced sleep. How do you feel?"

  "Hungry." To be expected-the two hours under slow time had accelerated his metabolism so that he had lived days in subjective time. Dumarest looked at his arms, noted the small, near-healed puncture in the hollow of one elbow. The mark left by intravenous feeding. "Glucose?"

  "That and saline and a few other things. You had some cracked ribs, extensive bruising, slight concussion, torn muscles and strained ligaments. There is also minor kidney damage. The ribs had been treated with hormone glue to promote rapid healing and the kidney damage has been corrected. Just take things easy for a while and you'll be fine."