"I take it you're known here?"
"Yes. We got Feenhalt out of a hole once. He isn't a bad old Lupan. Now — let's mess."
They escorted Kana through a series of rooms, each exotic in its furnishings, each bizarrely different, until they came to a chamber which brought a surprised exclamation out of him. For they might have stepped into a section of jungle. Gigantic fern-trees forested the walls and looped long fronds over their heads, but did not exclude a golden light which revealed cushioned benches and curving tables. Among the greenery swooped and fluttered streaks of flaming color which could only be the legendary Krotands of Cephas' inner sea islands. Kana, meeting such travelers' tales in truth, bemusedly allowed his companions to push him down on a bench.
"Krotands? But how — ?"
Mic's knuckles rapped and drew a metallic answer from the bole of the fern tree immediately behind them. Kana reached out to find that his fingers slid over a solid surface instead of rough bark. They were in a clever illusion.
"All done with mirrors," Mic assured him solemnly. "Not that it isn't one of the best bits of projecting Slanal ever designed. Feenhalt's got the business head — but it's his boss who thought up this sort of thing. Ha — food."
Plates arose out of the table top. Warily Kana tasted and then settled down to hearty stoking.
"It'll be a long time before we get another feed like this," Rey observed. "I heard Fronn's no pleasure planet."
"Cold to our notion — and the native culture is feudal," Kana supplied.
" `Police action,' " mused Mic. "Police action doesn't match a feudal government. What is the set-up — kings? Emperors?"
"Kings — they call them `Gatanus' — ruling small nations. But their heirship is reckoned through the female line. A Gatanu is succeeded by his eldest sister's son, not his own. He is considered closer kin to his mother and sisters than to his father or brothers."
"You must have studied up on this — "
"I used a record pak at Prime."
Rey looked pleased. "You're going to be an asset. Mic, we've got to keep our paws on this one."
Mic swallowed a heroic bite. "We sure have. Somehow I am visited by a feeling that this jump is not going to be foam-pad riding, and the more we know, the better for us."
Kana glanced from one to the other, catching the shadow glimpse of trouble. "What's up?"
Mic shook his head and Rey shrugged. "Blasted if we know. But — well, when you've trotted around the back of beyond and poked into places where a `man' is a mighty weird animal, you get a feeling about things. And we have a feeling about this — "
"Yorke?"
The morale of any Horde depended upon the character of its Blademaster. If Yorke could not inspire confidence in those who followed him —
Mic frowned. "No, it's not Fitch Yorke. By all accounts he's a master to latch to. There have been a lot of the glitter boys beside Hansu to sign up for this jump — you can always tell by that how a Blademaster stacks. It's a feeling — you get it sometimes — a sort of crawling — inside you — "
"Somebody kicking at your grave mark," Rey contributed.
Mic's big mouth twisted in a grin aimed at himself. "Regular mist wizards, aren't we? Step right up — read your future for a credit! Fronn isn't going to be any worse than a lot of other places I know. Through? Then let's show our greenie Feenhalt's private rake-off. Only time the old Lupan showed any imagination — And, flame bats, does it ever pay off!"
Feenhalt's flight of imagination turned out to be a gambling device which enthralled a large selection of Combatants. A pool sunk in the floor of a room was partitioned into sections around a central arena. In each of the small water-filled pens sported a fish about five inches long, two-thirds of that length was mouth lined with needle teeth. Each fish bore a small colored tag imbedded in its tail fin and swam about its prison in ferocious fury. The players gathered about the pool studying the captives. When two or more had chosen their champions, credit chips were inserted in the slots on the rim and the pen doors opened, freeing the fish to move into the arena. What followed was a wild orgy of battle until only one warrior remained alive. Whereupon the bettor who had selected that fish collected from those who had sponsored the dead.
No more attractive game could have been devised to snare credits from the Combatants. Kana measured the twisting finny fighters carefully, at last choosing a duelist with an excellent jaw spread and a green tail disc. He bought a credit chip from the house banker and knelt to insert the releasing coin in the lock of the pen.
A meaty, hair-matted hand splayed against his shoulder and Kana only caught himself from landing in the pool with a back-wrenching twist.
"Outta th' way, little boy. This here's for men — "
"Just what — !" Kana's words ended in a cough as Mic's fist landed between his shoulders and someone else jerked him away from the man who had taken his place and his fish. The fellow grinned up at him maliciously. Then, as if he expected no more trouble, he turned back to encourage the fighter released by the recruit's chip.
All the good humor was gone from Mic's face and even Rey's dancing eyes were sober as they moved Kana away, holding him motionless between them in an "unarmed in-fighting" grip against which he knew better than to struggle.
"We blast — now — " Mic informed him.
"Just what" — he began again — "do you think — "
"Fella, you might have dug your own grave there. That was Bogate — Zapan Bogate. He has twenty duel notches on his sword — eats greenies for breakfast when he can get them." Mic's words were light but his voice deadly serious.
"Do you think I'm afraid — " Kana smarted.
"Listen, fella, there's a big difference between being prudent and alive, and kicking a Zartian sand mouse in the teeth. You don't last long after the latter heroic deed. You can't be given a yellow stripe for ducking a run-in with Bogate — you're just intelligent. Someday one of the big boys — Hansu or Deke Mills or somebody like that — is going to get annoyed with Bogate. Then — man, oh, man — you'll be able to sell standing room at the fracas to half the forces and be a billion-credit man! Bogate is sudden and painful death on two crooked feet."
"Besides being about the best scout who ever sniffed a trail," cut in Rey. "Bogate at play and Bogate in the field are two different characters. The Blademasters tolerate the one on account of the other."
Kana recognized truth when he heard it. To return and tackle Bogate was stupid. But he still protested until they were interrupted by Hansu. The veteran, followed by two base policemen, bore down upon them.
"Yorke men?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Report to Barracks — on the quick. Blast-off has been moved up — " He was already past them to round up more of the Horde.
The three started back to the Combat area at a trot.
"Now what?" Rey wanted to know. "Last I heard we launched at noon tomorrow. Why all the hurry? We haven't even had muster line yet."
"I told you," grunted Mic, "that there was a smell about this — not perfume either. Octopods! That dinner we downed — and pressure chamber conditioning coming up! We're going to be might sorry we ate, mighty sorry."
With this dire prophecy still ringing in his ears Kana collected his war bag from the bunk he had not had a chance to occupy and took his place with Mic and Rey on the hoist platform to be slung on board the transport. Counted off by fours Kana found himself sharing a pressure chamber with his two new acquaintances and a supply man — the latter obviously bored by his juvenile company. They stripped to their shorts, submitted to shots from the medico. And then there was nothing left to do but strap down on the bunks and endure the ensuing discomfort.
The next few days were anything but pleasant. Slowly their bodies were forced to adapt to Fronn, since the planet was not going to adapt to them. It was a painful process. But when they landed on that chill world they were ready for action.