hed by adversity. Most were in their
prime: hard of face and body, wary, unbridled and
self-seeking. They mixed freely.

At a table further along the wall near to where
Brad and Hodak sat, Drummer gently swirled the
contents of his drinking goblet. He was gaunt, well
past middle years, with a high-boned countenance.
His head was capped by snow-white hair trimmed
straight across at his shoulders. Dressed simply,
Drummer wore a dark cloak over a white, open-necked
blouse tucked into loose breeches that ended a bit
below his knees. He did not bear a weapon.

Drummer stared about and searched for strangers
that might serve his purpose. When he heard that
the Raven was at planet-fall, he had called for
and reread all available newscasts and reports to
refresh his recollections of their crimes, personal
backgrounds, and escape.

Were they really escaped prisoners? Or were
they agents of the UIPS? If they were fugitives
they might be suckered into President Narval's
mercenaries where their spacer skills would help
fill the gaps. If they were revealed to be UIPS
agents, they would be quickly disposed of, or
manipulated and exploited through false leads
to Narval's benefit. When no longer useful they
would be terminated.

The newscasts and intelligence summaries on the
escape were insufficient. Drummer's position as
one of Narval's closest advisors, and his own private
and secret ambitions, compelled him to learn more
about the newcomers. How could they fit into his
schemes?

Drummer ordered a fresh drink from a passing
robo-dispenser. It arrived in a large snifter.
Cradling the rounded bottom in his palm, he swished
the gold-hued liquid with a gentle motion, eyes
moving from the drink to the crowd to Brad and
Hodak, and randomly round again.

A hard-muscled sledgehammer of a man barged
into the Charnel Pit, sullen anger knotting his beefy
face. His military uniform was skin-tight: a black
tunic belted over blood-red breeches. The military
helmet he wore was also halved black and red as
were his holster and the handgrip of the protruding
weapon. His black cavalier boots were made for
swaggering. Formidable.

Deep, red-rimmed eyes glared from under the
helmet's visor, searching for an open space along
the bar. The line was solid.

"Open ranks," he snarled, and leaned heavily into
the instant gap.

The barman rushed forward and raised his hand
in respectful greeting.

"Honored to see you, Major Scarf," h