Earthblood by Keith Laumer, Rosel George Brown Page A

Raff's hand was stretched out to him above the crutch—
    The gilled creature thrust itself before Roan, arms spread wide. Roan whirled—and saw the other—and beyond, a third, coming up fast. He feinted, dived between the two nearest—
    The steel grip caught his arm; he looked up into the old-shoe face, swung his doubled fist—
    Both hands were caught now. He kicked, but only bruised his toes against the horny shins.
    And then Raff was there, his brown face twisted, his mouth open. Over the mob roar, Roan couldn't hear what he was shouting. He saw Raff's thick arms swing up, and the crutch came down in a crashing arc on the gilled head, and for an instant the grip loosened, and Roan pulled a hand free—
    And then a gray-green figure loomed behind Raff, and a three-fingered hand struck, and now Raff's face was twisted in a different way, and he was falling, going down, and the white head was flushed suddenly crimson, and he lay in the yellow dust on his face, and Roan felt his throat screaming—
    His hand was free, and he struck, felt something yield, and he ripped at it, feeling his jaws open, teeth hungry for the enemy, and then both hands were free, and he smashed at the old-leather face, seeing it reel back, and then the other was at him with three-taloned hands clutching, and Roan seized two long fingers in his two hands and tore at them and felt them break and rip—
    And then he was falling, falling, and somewhere voices called, but they were far away, too far, and they faded, and were gone . . . And he was alone and very small in the dark.

Chapter Five
    Gom Bulj's diamond stickpin glittered like his eyes, and he smoked his cigar as though he had tasted and wearied of all other cigars in the universe.
    "You're a wild one, Terry," he said, both eyes staring at Roan. "What was the idea of crippling up Ithc? You should see his hand. Terrible!"
    "I hope he's ruined," Roan said, not crying, not thinking about the ache that made the side of his head feel as big as Gom Bulj's. "I wish I'd been able to kill him. I will kill him the first chance I get . . . " He had to stop talking then, remembering Dad, trying to help, then falling . . . and the dust on his face . . .
    "There was no need for the dramatics; no need at all. If you'd come along quietly, you'd have found life in the Extravaganzoo most rewarding—and I'd still have the use of Ithc. Did you know you nearly tore his finger off?"
    "He killed Dad," Roan said, and now there were tears; his face tried to twist and he felt dried blood crack on his skin; but he stood as straight as the Ythcan's grip on his arms would let him and looked Gom Bulj in one eye, the other being busy now with some papers spread on the desk.
    "I know everything you're going to say," the entrepreneur said, "so don't bother to say it. Just let me indicate to you that you are a very lucky Terry, Terry. If you weren't a valuable Freak, I'd put you out the nearest lock for the trouble you've caused me. But I'm a businessman. You'll start in as a scraper-punk and double in green-face." He jerked his huge head at the three-fingered guard. "Take him along to a cubicle on number two menagerie deck with the other Freaks—and see there's a stout lock on the door."
    Green arms like cargo cranes turned Roan and propelled him into the corridor. The vibration of the engines and the stink of ozone were more noticeable here than in the deep-carpeted office of the 'zoo owner. For a moment Roan felt a surge of excitement, remembering that he was aboard a ship, in deep space. He wanted to ask where they were bound, how long the voyage would last, but he wouldn't ask the Ythcan. He might be one of the ones who'd helped to kill Raff. Roan couldn't tell them apart. But there was one he would recognize . . .
    Roan sat in the limp hay that was his bed. The metal-walled cell smelled of animals and old air. He was sore all over but his mind was clear, and he listened to the sound that had awakened him with a feeling