They dropped the raider on the night side, less than thirty miles from Thanlar, the capitol city. The dark, slim ship drifted silently to the ground, discharged its passenger and lifted again, moving slowly like a great shark in the night. On the way out into space, it was caught by the defense screens of Thanlar and disappeared in a gout of flaming energy that lit up the entire night sky. The raider did not see it; he was already asleep.
He slept, and his dreams were troubled by images of a familiar face. Strong cheekbones, the mane of white hair, the famous half-smile of Mayne Landing, Earth Commissioner to the Colony Planets. Mayne Landing, the gentle representative of Terra to her children, the kindly old gentleman with the fist of steel, the benevolent despot over a hundred Colony Planets.
Mayne Landing: victim.
The raider woke with the dawn, a dawn that was slightly more red-tinged than the sun he was used to. He gathered his small store of equipment together and cached it in the low scrub of the surrounding forest. By a clear, sparkling stream he washed, wincing slightly from the shock of the too-cold water against his face.
He wore clothes indistinguishable from the other farmers of this district, slightly shabby, a uniform dun color. They did not fit him well, but they could not hide the wide shoulder and slim waist. Well, it didn't matter: the farmers of this planet, like all the Colonies, had to work hard to scrape their meager living from the rocky soil. They were all in good condition; he would not be conspicuous.
He finished washing and dried himself on the sleeve of his jumper. Then he began to walk down the rocky hill to the village that stood in the tiny valley below. In the early sun, the tiny assemblage of white clean houses sparkled like a handful of sand-polished shells clustered on a beach. He stopped for a moment, halfway down, looking at the village.
It was a nice little place, he thought. Peaceful in the early light, calm. There were a few people moving about the streets, probably farmers early on their way to the fields. It was a pastoral scene, like something he had read in a book a long time ago.
Nice, he thought. Quiet. I wonder what it will be like when I'm finished here.
It didn't pay to think about things like that. Not in his business.
He let his eyes shift slightly to take in the tall towers of Thanlar, just visible over the crest of hills on the other side of the valley. Thanlar, the capitol. That was his concern. That was what he had to think about, not the village.
He sighed once, started down the hill again, walking slowly, picking his way through the loose rocks with care.
As he neared the village, he passed several crews of men going out into the fields. He greeted them in Interlingua, and they replied shortly, without curiosity. He knew he was a stranger to them; they did not recognize him, but they showed no curiosity. These days, curiosity was not much advantage to anyone, he thought. The farmers had probably learned long ago not to show too much interest in any stranger who suddenly appeared from nowhere.
He came into the village and walked quickly to the faded wooden sign that announced, TAILOR. Entering the little shop, more a general dry-goods store than a tailor, he moved to the rear, to a small counter. No one was there, and he rang the bell on the counter.
After a moment, a man appeared, hastily buttoning a tunic, his hair still tousled, sleep in his eyes.
"Yes, yes? What is it? You are too early."
"My apologies, old man," said the raider. "I am looking for a hunting cloak."
The small man's eyes narrowed. "Ah," he said. "A hunting cloak. I have several. What did you have in mind."
"Something in gray. To suit my name."
"Ah. And what might you be hunting, Mr.—Gray?"
"An animal of my home planet. It is called a jackal."
"Ah."
The old man suddenly turned from the low rack of cloaks and stared directly at his customer. His mouth compressed in a thin, bitter line.
"So. You are he. The Mr. Gray who hunts the jackal. Come."
He turned and led the way into his living quarters behind the counter.
"I will tell the others you are here," he said. He left through a rear door, leaving the raider to wander about the tiny room, inspecting it without interest. He had seen too many like it in the past five years to be interested. Dingy little rooms in the back of a store, insect-ridden chambers in public lodgings, shack in the backwoods outside a city, too many, too many. And never a place to rest.
After this one, he promised himself. After this one.
Soon the little tailor came back, and there were two others with him. One was a ferret-eyed little man with a suspicious stare, the other a heavy-set farmer. The heavy-set man had a scythe in his hand, he had apparently been on his way to his fields when the tailor found him. He held the scythe tightly, and the raider could see he was very nervous. It was probably the first time he had ever come into contact with one of the raider's—profession. He didn't like it.
Extending his free right hand, the farmer said, "My name is Carroll. Joseph Carroll. You are—Mr. Gray?"
The raider took the proffered hand warmly, trying to gain this man's friendship. He would need all the help he could get.
"Gray is my given name, Mr. Carroll. My last name—" he laughed embarrassedly, "—well, they call me Wolf, for the time being."
"Appropriate," said the man bitterly.
"I'm sorry I have to meet you under these conditions, Mr. Carroll, very sorry."
The other shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the raider's lean, brown face, trying to guess what sort of mind lay behind it.
"In these times," he said finally, with an air of discouragement, "one cannot choose either one's friends or the conditions of meeting."
The ferret-eyed man had been watching the exchange closely, and now he sidled up to the raider with his thin, white hand ext............