Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder (Beastmaster) by Andre Norton, Lyn McConchie Page B
Authors: Andre Norton, Lyn McConchie
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crowd, boring toward the long table where a game of Kor-sal-slam was in progress, eager to try his luck at the game of chance that had swept through the Confed worlds with the speed of light during the past two years.
“Ransford! When did you get back?”
Storm saw a hand drop on the veteran’s shoulder, half turning him to face the speaker. It was a hand almost as brown as his own. And above it, around that equally brown wrist—! Storm did not betray the shock he felt. There was only one place that particular ornament could come from. For it was the ketoh of the Dineh—the man’s bracelet of his own people developed from the old bow-guard of the Navajo warrior! And what was it doing about the wrist of an Arzoran settler?
Without realizing that he was unconsciously preparing for battle, the Terran moved his feet a little apart, bracing and balancing his body for either attack or defense, as his eyes moved along the arm,clothed conventionally in frawn fabric, up to the face of the man who wore the ketoh. The stranger and Ransford had drawn a little apart, and now in his turn Storm shifted back against the wall, wanting to watch them without being himself observed.
The face of the settler was as brown as his hand—a weather-burned brown. But his were not Navajo features—though the hair above them was as black as Storm’s own. And it was a strong, attractive face with lines of good humor bracketing the wide mouth, softening the almost too-firm line of the jaw, while the eyes set beneath rather thick brows were a deep blue.
Storm was not too far away to hear Ransford’s return cry of “Quade!”
He had caught the hand from his shoulder and was shaking it vigorously. “I just got in, rode herd for Larkin down from the Port. Say, Brad, he’s got some good stuff in his new stud string—”
The wide mouth curved into a smile. “Now that’s news, Ranny. But we’re glad to have
you
back, fella, and in one unbroken piece. Heard a lot of black talk about how bad things were going out there—toward the end—”
“Our Arzor outfit got into it late. Just one big battle and some moppin’ up. Say—Brad, I want you to meet—”
But Storm took two swift steps backward, to be hidden by a push of newcomers, and Ransford could not see him. For once it was useful to be smaller than the settler breed.
“Queer—” The veteran’s voice carried puzzlement. “He was right here behind me. Off-worlder and a good kid. Rode herd down for Larkin and can he handle horses! Terran—”
“Terran!” repeated Quade, his smile gone. “Those dirty Xiks!” His words became highly flavored and combined some new expressions Storm did not recognize. All worlds, it seemed, developed their own brand of profanity. “I only hope the devils who planned that burn-off were cooked in their turn—to a crisp! Your man deserves every break we can give him. I’ll look him up—any good horseman is an asset. I hear you’re going out to the Vakind—”
They moved on but Storm remained where he was, surprised and not a little ashamed to find that the hands resting on the belt about his flat middle were trembling a little.
A meeting such as this did not match with the nebulous plans he had made. He wanted no curious audience when he met Quade—and then each of them should have a blaster—or better still—knives! Storm’s settlement with his man must not be one of the relatively bloodless encounters of Arzoran custom but something far more decisive and fatal.
The Terran was about to go out when a bull-throated roar rising above the clamor in the room halted him.
“Quade!” The man who voiced that angry bellow made Brad Quade seem almost as slender as a Norbie.
“Yes, Dumaroy?” The warmth that had been in his voice while he spoke with Ransford was gone. Storm had heard such a tone during his service days—that inflection meant trouble. He stayed to watch with a curiosity he could not control.
“Quade—that half-baked kid
“Ransford! When did you get back?”
Storm saw a hand drop on the veteran’s shoulder, half turning him to face the speaker. It was a hand almost as brown as his own. And above it, around that equally brown wrist—! Storm did not betray the shock he felt. There was only one place that particular ornament could come from. For it was the ketoh of the Dineh—the man’s bracelet of his own people developed from the old bow-guard of the Navajo warrior! And what was it doing about the wrist of an Arzoran settler?
Without realizing that he was unconsciously preparing for battle, the Terran moved his feet a little apart, bracing and balancing his body for either attack or defense, as his eyes moved along the arm,clothed conventionally in frawn fabric, up to the face of the man who wore the ketoh. The stranger and Ransford had drawn a little apart, and now in his turn Storm shifted back against the wall, wanting to watch them without being himself observed.
The face of the settler was as brown as his hand—a weather-burned brown. But his were not Navajo features—though the hair above them was as black as Storm’s own. And it was a strong, attractive face with lines of good humor bracketing the wide mouth, softening the almost too-firm line of the jaw, while the eyes set beneath rather thick brows were a deep blue.
Storm was not too far away to hear Ransford’s return cry of “Quade!”
He had caught the hand from his shoulder and was shaking it vigorously. “I just got in, rode herd for Larkin down from the Port. Say, Brad, he’s got some good stuff in his new stud string—”
The wide mouth curved into a smile. “Now that’s news, Ranny. But we’re glad to have
you
back, fella, and in one unbroken piece. Heard a lot of black talk about how bad things were going out there—toward the end—”
“Our Arzor outfit got into it late. Just one big battle and some moppin’ up. Say—Brad, I want you to meet—”
But Storm took two swift steps backward, to be hidden by a push of newcomers, and Ransford could not see him. For once it was useful to be smaller than the settler breed.
“Queer—” The veteran’s voice carried puzzlement. “He was right here behind me. Off-worlder and a good kid. Rode herd down for Larkin and can he handle horses! Terran—”
“Terran!” repeated Quade, his smile gone. “Those dirty Xiks!” His words became highly flavored and combined some new expressions Storm did not recognize. All worlds, it seemed, developed their own brand of profanity. “I only hope the devils who planned that burn-off were cooked in their turn—to a crisp! Your man deserves every break we can give him. I’ll look him up—any good horseman is an asset. I hear you’re going out to the Vakind—”
They moved on but Storm remained where he was, surprised and not a little ashamed to find that the hands resting on the belt about his flat middle were trembling a little.
A meeting such as this did not match with the nebulous plans he had made. He wanted no curious audience when he met Quade—and then each of them should have a blaster—or better still—knives! Storm’s settlement with his man must not be one of the relatively bloodless encounters of Arzoran custom but something far more decisive and fatal.
The Terran was about to go out when a bull-throated roar rising above the clamor in the room halted him.
“Quade!” The man who voiced that angry bellow made Brad Quade seem almost as slender as a Norbie.
“Yes, Dumaroy?” The warmth that had been in his voice while he spoke with Ransford was gone. Storm had heard such a tone during his service days—that inflection meant trouble. He stayed to watch with a curiosity he could not control.
“Quade—that half-baked kid
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