* * * * *

Coru-hin-Irigod held his aching head in both hands, as though he were afraid it would fall apart, and blinked in the sunlight from the window.  Lord Safar, how much of that sweet brandy had he drunk, last night?  He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to think.  Then, suddenly apprehensive, he thrust his hand under his pillow.  The heavy four-barreled pistols were there, all right, but—­The money!

He rummaged frantically among the bedding, and among his clothes, piled on the floor, but the leather bag was nowhere to be found.  Two thousand gold obus, the price of a hundred slaves.  He snatched up one of the pistols, his headache forgotten.  Then he laughed and tossed the pistol down again.  Of course!  He’d given the bag to the plantation manager, what was his outlandish name, Dosu Golan, to keep for him before the drinking bout had begun.  It was safely waiting for him in the plantation strong box.  Well, nothing like a good scare to make a man forget a brandy head, anyhow.  And there was something else, something very nice—­

Oh, yes, there it was, beside the bed.  He picked up the beautiful gleaming repeater, pulled down the lever far enough to draw the cartridge halfway out of the chamber, and closed it again, lowering the hammer.  Those two Jeseru traders from the North, what were their names?  Ganadara and Atarazola.  That was a stroke of luck, meeting them here.  They’d given him this lovely rifle, and they were going to accompany him and his men back to Careba; they had a hundred such rifles, and two hundred six-shot revolvers, and they wanted to trade for slaves.  The Lord Safar bless them both, wouldn’t they be welcome at Careba!

He looked at the sunlight falling through the window on the still recumbent form of his companion, Faru-hin-Obaran.  Outside, he could hear the sounds of the plantation coming to life—­an ax thudding on wood, the clatter of pans from the kitchens.  Crossing to Faru-hin-Obaran’s bed, he grasped the sleeper by the ankle, tugging.

“Waken, Faru!” he shouted.  “Get up and clear the fumes from your head!  We start back to Careba today!”

Faru swore groggily and pushed himself into a sitting position, fumbling on the floor for his trousers.

“What day’s this?” he asked.

“The day after we went to bed, ninny!” Then Coru-hin-Irigod wrinkled his brow.  He could remember, clearly enough, the sale of the slaves, but after that—­Oh, well, he’d been drinking; it would all come back to him, after a while.

* * * * *

Verkan Vall rubbed his hand over his face wearily, started to light another cigarette, and threw it across the room in disgust.  What he needed was a drink—­a long drink of cool, tart white wine, laced with brandy—­and then he needed to sleep.

“We’re absolutely nowhere!” Ranthar Jard said.  “Of course they’re operating on time lines we’ve never penetrated.  The fact that they’re supplying the Croutha with guns proves that; there isn’t a firearm on any of the time lines our people are legitimately exploiting.  And there are only about three billion time lines on this belt of the Croutha invasion—­”