“I’ll be twenty-five myself,” Rod yelled back. “We’ll have a swell birthday party.”
The last sound he heard was Mona’s hysterical laughter.
The heavy door closed softly and Rod found himself in the stinging sand of outside Tetrarch. But only for a moment. The guards took off their masks with obvious relief and guided him to a small building some fifty yards from the slave compartment.
He was thrust through a circular aperture and turned to see himself viewed by an elderly tetrarch. It spoke with the peculiar sibilance with which the tetrarchians handled human speech.
“You are a rassh yonge manss, Ross Harros. Howefser, there iss ssomething I musst ssay to you. With no one elsse of my rasce pressent.”
A door back of the tetrarch opened silently. Latham Koler slid noiselessly through the opening. Rod scowled into the quisling’s peering owl-eyes. It was an effort to resist the impulse to cover both of them with a left jab before crossing his right on the bony chin.
“I’m sorry our helmets keep me from spitting in your face,” he remarked.
The tetrarch motioned Koler forward.
“You are not as mature as I expected.” Koler’s voice rustled like his dark garments, “And your wits need more exercise. You’d be quarry for the Hunt at this moment, if I hadn’t interceded on your behalf.”
“Quarry?” Rod’s eyebrows raised.