But at least, there'd be no woman-murder. Not yet; not for a while. Even five hundred samori could not drag him down that far.
A new spasm of fury shook him, and he cursed Namboina aloud with the vilest epithets a dozen tongues could offer.
But the inner sickness still lingered with him. Bitterly, he stumbled to his feet, wondering in the same instant what had led the Shamon priest to lie—why he had really sought to have the woman called Kyla killed.
It was then he felt the weight in his side pocket.
Dully, he fumbled to find what it might be; then, puzzled, pulled it out into the open.
But it was only a bag ... a worn, somehow familiar bag.
A bag heavy with five hundred glittering samori....
CHAPTER II
He rode out at high noon astride the great, blue-scaled Mercurian hwalon dragon that in itself struck terror into lesser men. The wars of the void had burned his own skin blue with searing krypton radiation, and long years of battle service had dulled the polish of the heavy copronium armor that he wore.