That rabbit in the Traffic office had stirred up things I'd be wiser to
forget. It had been six years; six years of slow death behind a desk,
since the day when Rakhal Sensar had left me a marked man; death-warrant
written on my scarred face anywhere outside the narrow confines of the
Terran law on Wolf.
Rakhal Sensar--my fists clenched with the old impotent hate. _If I could
get my hands on him!_
It had been Rakhal who first led me through the byways of the Kharsa,
teaching me the jargon of a dozen tribes, the chirping call of the
Ya-men, the way of the catmen of the rain-forests, the argot of thieves
markets, the walk and step of the Dry-towners from Shainsa and Daillon
and Ardcarran--the parched cities of dusty, salt stone which spread out
in the bottoms of Wolf's vanished oceans. Rakhal was from Shainsa,
human, tall as an Earthman, weathered by salt and sun, and he had worked
for Terran Intelligence since we were boys. We had traveled all over our
world together, and found it good.
And then, for some reason I had never known, it had come to an end.
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