"How would I know of these things?" asked Kipofu.

I drew forth a silver tarsk.

Kipofu, I knew, through the organization of the beggars, their covering of territories, and their reports, as well as his use of them as messengers and spies, was perhaps the most informed man in Schendi. He, like a clever spider in its web, was the center of an intelligence network that might have been the envy of many a Ubar. There were few tremors in Schendi which did not, sooner or later, reach Kipofu on his simple etem in the square.

"That is a silver tarsk," I said. I pressed it into his palm.

"Ah," he said. He weighed the coin in his hand and felt its thickness. He ran his finger about its edge to determine that it had not been shaved. He tapped it on the etem. And, though it was not gold, he put it in his mouth, touching its surface with his tongue, and biting against its resistance.

"It is of Port Kar," he said. He had, too, pressed his thumb against the coin, on both sides, feeling the ship, and, on the reverse, the sign of Port Kar, its initials, in the same script that occurred on her Home Stone.

"This man," I said, "is small, and has a crooked back, hunched. He has a scar on his left cheek. He limps, dragging his right leg behind him."

The blood seemed suddenly to drain from Kipofu's face.

He turned a shade paler. He stiffened. He lifted his, head, listening intently.

I looked about. None were close to us.

"No one is near us," I said. I had little doubt that Kipofu, who was reputed to have extremely sharp senses, might have heard breathing within a radius of twenty feet, even in the square. I wondered at the nature of the man, the mention of whom might have caused this reaction in the shrewd Kipofu.

"His back is crooked and it is not," said Kipofu. "His back is hunched and it is not. His face is scarred and it is not. His leg is crippled and it is not."

"Do you know who this man is?" I asked him.

"Do not seek him," said Kipofu. "Forget him. Flee."

"Who is he?" I asked.

Kipofu pressed the coin back at me. "Take your tarsk," said he.

"I want to know," I said, determinedly.

Kipofu suddenly lifted his hand. "Listen," said he. "Listen!"

I listened.

"There is one about," he said.

I looked about. "No," I said. "There is not."

"There," said Kipofu, pointing, "there!"

But I saw nothing where he pointed. "There is nothing there," I said.

'There!" whispered Kipofu, pointing.

I thought him perhaps mad. But I walked in the direction which he had pointed. I encountered nothing. Then the hair on the back of my neck rose, as I realized what it might have been.

"It is gone now," said Kipofu.

I returned to the etem of the Ubar of the beggars. He was visibly shaken.

"Go away!" he said.

"I would know who the man is," I said.

"Go away!" said Kipofu. 'Take your tarsk!" He held it out to me.

"What do you know of the Golden Kailiauk?" I asked.

"It is a paga tavern," said Kipofu.

"What do you know of a white slave girl who works within it?" I asked.

"Pembe," he said, "who is the proprietor of the tavern, has not owned a white-skinned girl in months."

"Ah!" I said.

"Take back your tarsk," said Kipofu.

"Keep it," I told him. "You have told me much of what I wanted to know."

I then turned about and strode away, taking my leave from the presence of Kipofu, that unusual Ubar of the beggars of Schendi.

The girl stood at the heavy, wooden door, on the dark street, and knocked, sharply, four times, followed by a pause, and then twice. A tiny tharlarion-oil lamp burned near the door. I could see her dark hair, and high cheekbones, in the light. The yellow light, too, flickering, in the shadows, glinted on the steel collar beneath her hair. She wore a tan slave tunic, sleeveless, of knee length, rather demure for a bond girl. It did, however, have a plunging neckline, setting off the collar well.

She repeated the knock, precisely as before.

She was barefoot. In her hand, wadded up, was a tiny scrap of yellow slave silk, which had been her uniform in the tavern of Pembe.

She was not a bad looking girl. Her hair, dark-brown, was of shoulder length.

Her accent, as I had detected yesterday evening, in the Golden Kailiauk, was barbarian. Something in it, when she had cried out, or spoken to me, suggested that she might be familiar with English.

I had little doubt she had been affiliated with he who had called himself Kunguni. She had simulated the appearance of the blond-haired barbarian beneath the brown aba. Her face and body, when she had protested her innocence to me, had belied her words. I had learned from Kipofu that she was not owned by Pembe, proprietor of the Golden Kailiauk. Doubtless, for a fee, paid by her master, if she were a slave, she had been permitted to serve in his place of business. Sometimes masters do this sort of thing for their girls. It is cheaper than renting space for them in the public or private pens. Pembe would not be likely to think anything amiss.

I stood back in the shadows. A tiny panel in the door slid back. Then it shut. A moment later the door opened.

I saw, in the light; briefly, the scarred face, and bent back, hunched, of he who had called himself Kunguni. He looked about, but did not see me, concealed in the shadows. The girl slipped past him, and entered the door. It then shut.

I looked about, and then crossed the narrow street I glanced at the shuttered windows. I could see cracks of light between the wooden slats.

Inside, not far from the door, I could see the girl and the man. The room, or anteroom, was dingy.

"Is he here yet?" asked the girl.

"Yes," said the man, "he is waiting inside."

"Good," she said.

"It is our hope," said the man, "that you will be more successful this evening than last."

"I can get nothing out of her, if she knows nothing." snapped the girl.

"That is true," said the man.

The girl took the bit of wadded yellow pleasure silk she carried in her hand and, straightening it a bit, slipped it on a narrow wooden rod in an open closet. "Disgusting garment," she said. "A girl might as well be naked."

"A lovely garment," said the man, "but I agree with your latter sentiment."

She looked at him, angrily.

"Did many ask for you tonight?" he asked. "Or did Pembe have to inform them that you were not for use?"

"None asked," she said, angrily.

"Interesting," he said.

"Why is it 'interesting'?" she asked, not pleasantly.

"I do not know," he said. "It just seems that your face and body would be of interest to men, but apparently they are not."

"I can be attractive, if I wish," she said.

"I doubt it," he said.

"Behold!" she said, striking a pose.

"It is fraudulent," he said. "Women such as you understand nothing of attractiveness. With you it is a matter of externals, of acting. Any true man sees through it immediately. You confuse the pretense with the truth, the artificial and imitative with the reality. You think you could become attractive but merely choose not to be so. It is a delusion, as you understand these things. This permits you to console yourself with lies and, at the same time, provides you with an excuse for despising and belittling the truly attractive woman, thinking she is merely, as you would be, if you were she, acting. But it is not true. The source of a woman's attractiveness is within her. It is internal. It comes from the inside out She is vulnerable, and desires men, and wishes: to be touched and owned. This then shows in her body and movements, and in her eyes and face. That is the truly attractive woman."