The swaying motion of the stretcher shook him awake. The Earthmen were carrying him along a narrow mountain trail, past deep drifts of snow. His wound, where Briggan's beam had hit him, was neatly bandaged; he could smell the odor of a disinfectant. It surprised him that the Earth people knew so much about medicine; but it surprised him more that they had tried to save his life.
He listened to his captors when they talked. He was able to understand a few phrases of the native dialect which every man assigned to the occupation had to learn, but what he had been taught was sadly inadequate. When one of his stretcher bearers saw that the Captain was conscious, he spoke to him in the cultured language of the civilized galaxy. The syntax was awkwardly handled, yet Tchassen was amazed that the Earthman used it so well.
"Be no fear," the native said. "You get living again."
"Tynia. The girl with me—"
"Wound bad; she dead before we come. We follow from prison and try help all four you. You fight each other. You have evil weapons. We can save only you."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Make you well; send you back."
The answer came as a shock to Tchassen; it was what a civilized people would have said. But the Earth natives were savages—brilliant, inventive individualists, but nonetheless social barbarians. It would have seemed much more logical if the native had said he was keeping Tchassen for a religious ceremonial sacrifice.
"As soon as my wounds are healed," Tchassen repeated, "you'll let me go?"