"So," he purred. "Our friend who lurks in shadows. The brave man who stands and watches as his woman is molested. Tell me, coward, what is your name?"

Silently Dumarest studied the intruder. His eyes were huge beneath lowering brows, ears slightly pointed, mouth pursed over prominent canines. His face and neck were covered with the same fine down as the backs of his hands. Brephor was a cat-man, a mutated sport from some lonely world, the genes of his forebears jumbled by radiation. He would be fast and vicious, a stranger to the concept of mercy, a stranger also to the concept of obedience.

"I asked you a question, coward," he said. "What is your name?"

"Dumarest," said Earl, "a traveler like yourself." He lifted his left hand so as to draw attention away from his right and the knife held tight against his leg. The ring he wore caught the light, the flat, red stone glowing like a pool of freshly spilled blood. Brephor looked at it and flared his nostrils.

Abruptly he attacked.

Metal flashed as he raked his claws at Dumarest's eyes. At the same time his free hand reached out to trap the knife and his knee jerked up and forward in a vicious blow at the groin. Dumarest swayed backwards, twisting and lifting his knife beyond reach. He felt something touch his cheek, falling to tear at his tunic and becoming a furred and sinewy wrist as he caught it with his left hand. The stabbing knee thudded against his thigh and, for a moment, Brephor was off balance.

Immediately Dumarest swung up the knife and thrust along the line of the arm. driving the blade clean into the cat-man's neck just below the ear; he twisted it so as to free the steel. The force of the impact sent them both towards the door. Dumarest regained his balance, jerked free the knife and sent the dead man toppling from the hut.

A face showed as a pale blob against the darkness, lit by the small flame of the lamp within the hut. Something bright rose as the woman screamed a warning.

"Earl! He's got a gun!"

Fire spat from the muzzle of the weapon as Dumarest threw the knife. He saw the face fall away, the hilt sprouting from one eye and a ribbon of blood running down to the ruff of beard. The blood was immediately washed away by the rain.

"Be careful!" Selene lifted the lamp, sheltering the flame. "There could be others."

He ignored her, springing from the doorway to recover the knife. Rain hammered at his unprotected head, slammed against the shoulders of his tunic and sent little spurts of mud leaping up from the semi-liquid ooze. In seconds it had washed the blade clean. Dumarest sheathed it and looked to either side; he saw nothing but darkness relieved only by the weak glimmers of light coming from behind scraps of transparent plastic or through cracks in disintegrating walls.

"Earl-"

"Give me the lamp," he snapped, "quickly!"

The flame danced as he held it close to the faces of the dead men. Hendris had none of the characteristics of his companion, but that meant little. They could have come from different worlds. If they had grown up together it still meant nothing. If Brephor was the norm, then Hendris could have been an atavist; if Hendris was the norm, Brephor would have been a freak. Both, to Dumarest, were strangers.

He found the gun and examined it. It was a simple slug-thrower of cheap manufacture and used an explosive to drive the solid projectile. Dumarest threw it into the darkness. It was useless without matching ammunition and a laser was far more efficient. Handing the lamp back to Selene: he dragged both men into the shelter of the hut. Straightening, he looked at the woman.

"If you want anything, take it," he said. "But don't waste time doing it."

She hesitated.

"Strip them," he said curtly. "Are you so rich you can afford to throw away things of value?"

"You know I'm not. Earl," she protested. "But if I take things which may later be recognized by a friend, I shall be blamed for having caused their deaths."

"Men like these have no friends," he said flatly. "Let's see what they were carrying."

The clothes were ordinary, but of a better quality than they seemed. There was money, a phial of drugs from Brephor, spare clips of ammunition for the discarded gun of the bearded man, and five rings of varying quality and size, all with red stones. Also there were a couple of sleeve knives and an igniter and flashlight with a self-charging cell, but nothing more of interest or value.

Dumarest frowned as he examined the rings. "Odd," he mused. "Why should they want to collect rings?"

"They were robbers," said the woman, "raiders. They saw your ring and thought to take it."

Slowly Dumarest shook his head.

"They were spoiling for trouble," she insisted. "The cat-man must have sensed your presence. He was a killer desiring sport." Her finger touched the phial of drugs. "Doped," she said. "Riding high, and fast! When he went for your eyes his hand was a blur. If you hadn't been even faster he would have torn out your eyes."

That was true enough. Dumarest opened the phial and cautiously tasted the contents. A euphoric, he guessed, probably wedded to slow-time so that the effect of the drug would be enhanced by the actual speeding up of the metabolism. If so, Brephor's speed was understandable; time, to him, had slowed so that he could do more in a second than could a normal man.

Dumarest sealed the phial and threw it on the table. "Why?" he demanded. "Why should they have come here as they did? They weren't looking for shelter: they had enough money to buy that at the station. And they know you had someone staying at your home."

"Coincidence," she said. "They were looking for sport and changed their minds when they saw my face."

"They were looking for something," he agreed. "The cat-man attacked as soon as he saw my ring." He looked at it, a warm patch against his finger, and idly ran his thumb over the stone. "They had five rings," he mused, "all with red stones. Did five men die to supply them?"

"They were raiders." she insisted stubbornly, "men who hoped to rob and kill in the cover of the night."

"Yes," said Dumarest. "You are probably correct." He looked at the pile of clothing and the small heap of the dead men's possessions. "Take it." he said, "all of it."

Her eyes fell to where the two bodies lay sprawled on the floor. "And those?"

"Leave them to me."

The huts were built on the slope of a valley, the only feasible place on a planet where the rain fell with the relentless force it did on Scar. All through the thirty-day winter the skies emptied their burden of water, the rain washing away the soil, garbage and refuse, carrying it down to the valley which was now a small sea of ooze.

Dumarest picked up the cat-man; his muscles bulged beneath his tunic as he supported the weight. Cautiously, he walked through the cluster of shacks to where the ground fell abruptly away from beneath his feet. He heaved, waited, and turned when he heard the splash of the body. The bearded man followed, sinking into the morass, food for the parasitical fungi, the bacteria and the anaerobic spores.

Slowly Dumarest walked back to the hut. The door was open, the guttering flame of the lamp illuminating the interior and casting a patch of brightness on the mud outside. He paused at the opening; the dead men's effects had vanished from sight. Selene looked at him from where she stood beside the table.

"You're leaving," she said, "going to the station, back to the field."

Dumarest nodded. "You don't need me," he said, "not now, and it's almost spring. I would have been leaving in any case."

Her hand rose and touched the scar on the side of her face, the seared and puckered blotch which ran over cheek and neck. "You don't have to go, Earl. You know that."

"I know it."