yed his
hospitality and his boot long enough and feel like striking out for
myself."

"You can't do that," she gasped. "You will be killed."

"Ch'aka can't very well kill me if I'm not here."

"Everybody will kill you. That is the law. Runaway slaves are always
killed."

Jason sat down again and cracked another chunk from his _krenoj_ and
ruminated over it. "You've talked me into staying a while. But I have
no particular desire now to kill Ch'aka, even though he did steal my
boots. And I don't see how killing him will help me any."

"You are stupid. After you kill Ch'aka you'll be the new Ch'aka. Then
you can do what you want."

Of course. Now that he had been told, the social setup appeared
obvious. Because he had seen slaves and slave-holders, Jason had held
the mistaken notion that they were different classes of society, when
in reality there was only one class, what might be called the
dog-eat-dog class. He should have been aware of this when he had seen
how careful Ch'aka was to never allow anyone within striking distance
of him, and how he vanished each night to some hidden spot. This was
free enterprise with a vengeance, carried to its absolute extreme with
every man out for himself, every other man's hand turned against him,
and your station in life determined by the strength of your arm and
the speed of your reflexes. Anyone who stayed alone placed himself
outside this society and was therefore an enemy of it and sure to be
killed on sight. All of which added up to the fact that he had to kill
Ch'aka if he wanted to get ahead. He still had no desire to do it, but
he had to.

* * * * *

That night he watched Ch'aka when he slipped away from the others and
Jason made a careful note of the direction that he took. Of course the
slave master would circle about before he concealed himself, but with
a little luck Jason would find him. And kill him. He had no special
love of midnight assassination, and until landing on this planet had
always believed that killing a sleeping man was a cowardly way to
terminate another's existence. But special conditions demand special
solutions, and he was no match for the heavily armored man in open
combat, therefore the assassin's knife. Or rather sharpened horn. He
managed to doze fitfully until some time after midnight, then slipped
silently from under his skin coverings. Silently he skirted the
sleepers and crept into the darkness between t