the weapon flying. Then with a savage
growl he set a soft mouth against the other's throat and let the man
feel the pressure of his fangs.

"Easy," said Peter.

Buregarde backed away a few inches. "Easy nothing," he snapped. "This
man is the noble dog's worst enemy. He wanted your blood."

"Take it easy. I want his information."

The man looked up. "Barbarian Terrestrial!" he snarled.

Peter sneered. "And this is the capital city of the glorious
civilization called Xanabar? Marble palaces with nobles of the blood,
and stinking alleys with human rats. Where is she?"

The stranger spat.

"Buregarde, want some red meat?"

"He'd make me upchuck. Only rodents eat their own kind."

"Just a bite?"

"Do I have to swallow?"

"No. Just slash--"

"Wait, barbarian--"

"Barbarian Terrestrial, am I? You were maybe going to invite me for tea
and cakes with that pencil-ray?"

"I--"

"Talk!" snapped Peter. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Buregarde--?"

"Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand?"

"All right--for the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in--and
we'll have two of you!"

Buregarde growled, "Three of us. And we might be hard to handle."

Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand
dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for, and found the
pencil-ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed
the stranger across the face, turned him around, and pointed him toward
the far corner.

"I count three," he said. "If you're not out of sight by three--"

"It'll be a pleasure, Peter," said Buregarde.

* * * * *

The stranger loped away on a crazy run. As he turned the corner he ran
face on to one of the uniformed mercenaries of Xanabar. The mercenary
collared the stranger and took a quick inventory of the slashed right
hand, the ripped clothing, and adding those to the frightened gallop he
came back with the stranger's left arm held in a backlock.

Haughtily he demanded, "What goes on in Xanabar?"

Peter eyed the mercenary sourly. "Kidnaping and attempted murder."

"Who says such lawlessness runs rife in Xanabar?"

"I say so. Peter Hawley of the Extraterrestrial Service. I say so."

"You are mistaken, barbarian."

"I say so," said Buregarde.

"You're an animal."

"I am--and so are you."

"I'll not be insulted by an animal! I am--"

"Take it easy, Buregarde."

"Take it easy nothing. This mercenary foot-soldier