He did not hear the muffled thunder of the 'copter that swung in a circle above his shack and swooped downward to dig its tires into the yielding sands. He did not see the door open, and who came out.
"Kortha," said a voice like a song.
He started then; looked up, brows furrowed. His eyes opened a trifle in astonishment.
"Ilse!" he whispered. The hammer fell from his grasp and bounced on the brick floor.
The girl with the hair like spun flax laughed softly and leaned against the wooden door. A white cloak clasped with a fiery ruby draped her shoulders. She wore gauze trousers with broad leather belt studded with jewels, and a bolero of arket-fur. Her white midriff was bare.
"You ran away, Kortha," she accused, her dark eyes gleaming like uncut sapphires from the tanned oval of her face. "You ran away from Hurlgut when he needed you. It took me a long time to learn where you had holed."
"Three years," said Kortha softly, wiping grimy hands on the white fur that clasped his hard loins beneath the leathern apron.
The girl ran her eyes over his massive frame in approval; saw shoulders a yard wide, and a chest and legs that were ridged in muscles. His long arms, tanned by years of exposure to a desert sun, were those of a king gorilla. She had seen Kortha snap an iron chain with those arms; had seen him break a man's back, and other things. Well did Ilse know the strength of Kortha, and the fact that she carried a heatgun in her cloak was mute evidence that she had knowledge of his mad, flare-hot temper.
Ilse sighed, "You could rule the Confederacy if you would."
"And own gems to garland your hair, and furs to swathe your body," he said.