"We know that she had a fire," said the first. "One supposes she was cooking. If she was cooking, she must have caught birds or meat."

"At the edge of the thicket to the northeast, days ago," said the second man, "we found the bones of brush urts!"

"Yes," said the first man, "and nearby, in this thicket, there is a small game trail."

"It is hard to hunt in a Ka-la-na thicket," said the second man.

"More importantly," said the first man, "brush urts tend to use such trails." "Yes!" said the second.

"Sooner or later, it seems likely, does it not," asked the first, "that she will come to the trail, to hunt, or set a snare, or see if one is sprung." "There may be other trails," pointed out the second man. "If we do not catch her now," said the first man, spreading his hands, "we will catch her tomorrow, or the day after."

On my stomach, carefully, silently, I began to back away. When I was several yards away, silently, bending over, noiselessly, I slipped away.

One thought was foremost in my mind. That I must find and warn Ute, that we might escape.

But then I stopped.

I crawled into some brush, frightened. They had always spoken only of "she." As far as they knew, there was but one girl to be caught.

I shook my head. No, I must not think such thoughts. But the men frightened me. They were rough, cruel men, mercenaries, ruthless. I could not permit Elinor Brinton, the sensitive girl of Earth, to fall into the hands of such hardened brutes. I had heard them talk of what they would do to a girl, even though she might be white silk!

Ute had been a slave before.

No, I told myself, no! I must not think such thoughts.

I found myself getting up and, calmly, walking back toward our camp. The men knew of only one girl. They thought there was only one of us. I must not think such thoughts, I told myself.

Ute and I must escape.

I smiled.

Ute had thought she was my leader. She had dared to give me orders. She had commanded me, Elinor Brinton, though she was only an ignorant Gorean girl, had dared to act as the leader of a girl of Earth, and one such as I!

She would learn better.

No, I cried to myself. I must warn Ute! I must warn her!

I was now nearing our camp, walking casually.

I remembered clearly what the man had said. "If we do not catch her now," he had said, "we will catch her tomorrow, or the day after."

They had pursued us for days. They would not give up the chase. They would have us.

I smiled.

Or at least one of us.

Ute was stupid, she was ignorant, she was Gorean, she did not matter. She was a crude, simple girl. She made mistakes in speaking her own language. She did not have my fine mind, my sensitivity, my delicate nature, my cleverness. She was, I reminded myself, of low caster. She was less, far less than I.

Besides, she had dared to treat me as her inferior, ordering me about, instructing me. I hated her! Pretty little Ute, whom men found so desirable! I hated her! I was more beautiful than she. Ute had been slave before. She could be slave again! I remembered she had once thonged me by the nose ring. I hated her. We would find out who was more clever. I hated her!

I threw the piece of binding fiber, which I had been carrying for the snare, which I had not set, into the brush.

"Greetings, Ute," said I, smiling.

"Tal, El-in-or," smiled Ute, looking up from her work. She was trying, with a pointed stick, to round a pit in a new board for a new fire drill. Usually, in our night journeys, we carried with us only the precious binding fiber. Accordingly, Ute often constructed a new drill.

"Oh, Ute," I said. "I set the snare far down the game trail. And as I was going away, I heard it spring and heard an animal."

"Good," said Ute. "What was it?"

"I don't know," I said. "I looked. I had not seen one like it before. It is some kind of brush urt, I think. It is very ugly."

"Why didn't you bring it back with you? she asked.

"I did not want to touch it," I said.

"Oh, El-in-or!" laughed Ute. "You are so foolish!"

"Please get it, Ute," I begged. "I do not want to touch it. It is so ugly." "All right," said Ute. "I will get it." She returned to her work.

I cast a frightened glance backward, down the trail.:Hadn't you better hurry?" I asked.

"Why?" asked Ute.

"Might someone not find the snare?" I said.

Ute looked at me. "Yes," she said. "We must take it down quickly." She put aside her work and stood up.

"Show me where you put it," said Ute, starting off.

"No!" I cried.

She turned and looked at me.

"You can't miss it," I told her. "It is to the left. You could not miss it." "All right," said Ute, and left the camp. My heart was pounding.

Stealthily, at a distance, I followed her. A short distance from the camp, I knelt down and picked up a heavy rock. I hid in the brush beside the trail, clutching the rock.

Suddenly, some hundred yards away, I heard a man's shout.

My heart leaped. They had taken her!

But then I heard the shouts of another man, and then of both, and a crashing through the brush.

To my dismay, terrified, frantic, her eyes wide, hands extended, fleet as a Tabuk, Ute was fleeing back down the trail.

"El-in-or," she cried. "Slavers! Run!"

"I know," I said.

She looked at me, startled.

I struck her suddenly in the side of the head with the stone.

They must find her, not me!

Ute, moaning, stunned, sank to her hands and knees, shaking her head. I threw the rock down beside her. The men would assume she had fallen and struck her head.

Quickly I fled back into the brush and hid.

Ute struggled to her feet, but stumbled and fell again, moaning, to her hands and knees.

I saw them seize her.

She was still stunned, half conscious. While she was still on her hands and knees, they cut the camisk from her, discarding it. They threw her forward on her stomach. One pulling her wrists behind her back and binding them, the other crossing her ankles and lashing them together.

I was pleased. Ute had been taken.

I only feared that she might tell them that I was about. But somehow I knew that she could not. Ute was stupid. I knew she would not betray me.

I thus, cleverly, eluded my pursuers.

I would continue my journey to the village of Rarir, which I thought I might now be able to find. I could tell them, in that village, that I had been a friend of Ute's whom I hoped they would remember. They would befriend me. In time, I would use the help of the villagers to find my way to the exchange island of Teletus, where I could find, if all went well, Ute's foster parents. I had little doubt but what they would care for me, and be kind to me, for I had been a friend of Utes, their foster daughter, so long ago fallen slave on the journey to the Sardar. I could tell them and would, that Ute had told me to find them, and had promised me that they would care for me. Ute and I had been desperately trying to reach them. I would tell them, only we had fallen in with slavers and, unfortunately, only I had escaped. Would they care for me? I had little doubt but what they would. I expected that they would beg me, in Ute''s place, to permit myself to be adopted as their daughter/ I was much pleased.

I continued the journey to Rarir.

I moved by night, and, by day, slept in Ka-la-na thickets.

I was stirring in my bed of soft grasses, hidden in such thicket, half asleep. I was drowsy. There were insects about. I had been well fed the night before, for I had stopped, hidden in the darkness, near a peasant village, where, from a pole, I had stolen a piece of drying meat, bosk flesh. It was far superior to what I had been able to snare.

I had not cooked my meat since Ute's capture. I was not confident of my ability to construct or use an efficient fire drill. More importantly, I knew that it was dangerous to make a fire. I had well learned this.