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convenient to her right hand.
    Even during the supper, she had heard the warming of the motors of the two hoverers and the two treaded, armored, motorized vehicles. She doubted that more than one hoverer would be utilized in her escape, extracting her from the camp, hurrying her through the cold, clouded night to Venitzia, where she would be taken aboard the lighter, and carried to the Narcona , in orbit, to be returned to Lisle, to wealth, dignity, honor, and power. The other three devices, or, at least, the two motorized vehicles, would have been warmed merely that the barbarian, who seemed a clever, cunning fellow, might not note the peculiarity of but one, or two, of the devices being readied for departure. She recalled that Corelius, who had doubtless placed the knife, had piloted one of the hoverers. That, most likely, would be utilized in her escape. It now seemed clear to her, as well, that Phidias, captain of the Narcona , must be privy to the plot. Otherwise, one of a comparable, or higher, rank, and one with similar skills, would have to be involved, one whom the staff and crew of the freighter would accept, and obey, a second in command possibly, or a hitherto obscure figure, who would then disclose his credentials and take command. That was possible, surely, but unlikely. Phidias must be one of us, she thought, as Corelius, and perhaps others.
    â€œHold, Cornhair,” had said Nissimi, the brunette first-girl, intercepting Filene on her way to the barbarian’s quarters.
    â€œMistress?” had said Filene, apprehensive, immediately kneeling, having been addressed by her superior.
    â€œYou are on your way to the bed chamber of Master Ottonius, are you not?” asked Nissimi.
    â€œYes, Mistress,” said Filene.
    â€œYou are rather heavily garmented, are you not?” asked Nissimi.
    â€œMistress?” said Filene.
    â€œGet it off,” snapped Nissimi.
    Filene slipped the tavern tunic over her head, and handed it to Nissimi. She felt Nissimi’s switch under her chin, lifting her head.
    â€œHold still, straighten your back, hands palms down on your thighs,” said Nissimi, who then, slowly, walked about Filene, and then stood again before her.
    â€œYou are a pretty thing,” said Nissimi. “Men will like you. You might go for as much as fifteen or twenty darins .”
    Filene gasped, furious.
    To be sure, given the chaotic economies of the worlds, even several of the inner worlds, the value of a darin was problematical, ranging from less than its metal value on many worlds to the equivalent, or better, of a workman’s daily wage on others. We may suppose that on the worlds with which Nissimi was likely to be familiar fifteen to twenty darins was a plausible price for a comely slave. The rhythms of markets, of course, also fluctuate, as would be expected, even with a stable currency, given the time of year, and the exigencies of supply and demand. As a consequence, independent of market conditions, it is idle to speculate on what a given slave might bring on the block, as is the case, obviously, with other forms of merchandise, as well. Other factors may also exert their influence, such as the prestige of the vending house, the care and quality with which a given sale is organized, advertised, and conducted, the skills of the auctioneer, some of whom command high salaries or commissions, and so on.
    â€œWhy did you not seek me out, to be inspected?” asked Nissimi.
    â€œI did not know it was necessary,” said Filene, acidly.
    â€œIt is not,” said Nissimi. “But one would have supposed that a new girl, perhaps timid, fearful, hesitant, and uncertain, might have wished to solicit the views of her first girl.”
    â€œI may be new,” said Filene, “but I assure you that I am not timid, fearful, hesitant, or uncertain.”
    â€œYou are fearful, Cornhair,” said Nissimi. “It is easy to see. You are upset. You are afraid of