The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

command. This must be one of the ship’s officers.
    Dark eyes surveyed Ross with interest. The light from the deck focused directly across the raider’s shoulder to catch the Terran in its full glare, and Ross fought the need for squinting. But he tried to give back stare for stare, confidence for self-confidence.
    On Terra in the past more than one adventurer’s life had been saved simply because he had the will and nerve enough to face his captors without any display of anxiety. Such bravado might not hold here and now, but it was the only weapon Ross had to hand and he used it.
    “You—” the Rover broke the silence first, “you are not of the Foanna—” He paused as if waiting an answer—denial or protest. Ross provided neither.
    “No, not of the Foanna, nor of the scum of the coast either.” Again a pause.
    “So, what manner of fish has come to the net of Torgul?” He called an order aloft. “A rope here! We’ll have this fish and its fellow out—”
    Loketh and Ross were jerked up to the outer deck, dumped into the midst of a crowd of seamen. The Hawaikan was left to lie but, at a gesture from the officer, Ross was set on his feet. He could see the nature of his bonds now, a network of dull gray strands, shriveled and stinking, but not giving in the least when he made another try at moving his arms.
    “Ho—” The officer grinned. “This fish does not like the net! You have teeth, fish. Use them, slash yourself free.”
    A murmur of applause from the crew answered that mild taunt. Ross thought it time for a countermove.
    “I see you do not come too close to those teeth.” He used the most defiant words his limited Hawaikan vocabulary offered.
    There was a moment of silence, and then the officer clapped his hands together with a sharp explosion of sound.
    “You would use your teeth, fish?” he asked and his tone could be a warning.
    This was going it blind with a vengeance, but Ross took the next leap in the dark. He had the feeling, which often came to him in tight quarters, that he was being supplied from some hard core of endurance and determination far within him with the right words, the fortunate guess.
    “On which one of you?” He drew his lips tight, displaying those same teeth, wondering for one startled moment if he should take the Rover’s query literally.
    “Vistur! Vistur!” More than one voice called.
    One of the crew took a step or two forward. Like Torgul, he was tall and heavy, his over-long arms well muscled. There were scars on his forearms, the seam of one up his jaw. He looked what he was, a very tough fighting man, one who was judged so by peers as seasoned and dangerous.
    “Do you choose to prove your words on Vistur, fish?” Again the officer had a formal note in his question, as if this was all part of some ceremony.
    “If he meets with me as he stands—no other weapons.” Ross flashed back.
    Now he had another reaction from them. There were some jeers, a sprinkling of threats as to Vistur’s intentions. But Ross caught also the fact that two or three of them had gone silent and were eyeing him in a new and more searching fashion and that Torgul was one of those.
    Vistur laughed. “Well said, fish. So shall it be.”
    Torgul’s hand came out, palm up, facing Ross. In its hollow was a small object the Terran could not see clearly. A new weapon? Only the officer made no move to touch it to Ross, the hand merely moved in a series of waves in mid-air. Then the Rover spoke.
    “He carries no unlawful magic.”
    Vistur nodded. “He’s no Foanna. And what need have I to fear the spells of any coast crawler? I am Vistur!”
    Again the yells of his supporters arose in hearty answer. The statement held more complete and quiet confidence than any wordy boast.
    “And I am Ross Murdock!” The Terran matched the Rover tone for tone. “But does a fish swim with its fins bound to its sides? Or does Vistur fear a free fish too greatly to face one?”
    His taunt brought the result Ross wanted. The ties were cut from behind, to flutter down as withered, useless strings. Ross flexed his arms. Tight as those thongs had been they had not constricted circulation, and he was ready to meet Vistur. The Terran did not doubt that the Rover champion was a formidable fighter, but he had not had the advantage of going through one of the Agent training courses. Every trick of unarmed fighting known on his own world had been pounded into Ross long ago. His hands and feet could