His greasy talons reached out to clutch the single supporting halter of Penny's crude garment. The girl froze at his touch, and a color suffused her clear, golden skin, but true to the teachings of her race she said no word, but stood stock-still with lowered head.
But if Penny could endure personal degradation for the good of their cause, and if Kang could philosophically accept this as a necessary evil, not so the two young Earthmen. As if both stanchions of a bridge had broken simultaneously, Lark O'Day and Gary Lane hurled themselves forward side by side.
O'Day's voice was a blaze of fury. "Take your hands off her, you slimy weasel!"
With a slashing blow he loosened the man's grip, hauled Penny to the shelter of his arm.
Tisru gasped. Fierce anger narrowed his eyes, and with a hiss he groped for a knife sheathed in his belt. But he never touched it. For at that moment Gary struck. His right fist moved scarce fifteen inches, but it smashed the auctioneer's bearded chin with a furious accuracy. The man flew backward off the dais, flailing, awkward, scrambling, spitting blood from his broken lips.
Then everything was bedlam. The crowd came to its feet, roaring in outrage at the sight of serfs who dared rebel. Knives whipped from belts as figures surged forward. Not only knives but deadly ray guns, too. And Gary panted, "We're in for it now! Stand them off as long as you can, Lark. I'll see what I—"
But there came an interruption. A sharp incisive voice rose from somewhere at the back of the throng.
"No! Touch not the slaves! Let none move another step!"
All heads turned as one. A current of astonishment coursed through the throng, swelling to a murmur as the speaker was recognized. "Moranu, Seneschal of the Inner Council!" And there pressed through yielding ranks a Magogean clad even more grandiloquently than any the Solarites had yet seen. A tall, impressive figure who carried himself with an air of supreme and confident authority.
Haughtily he strode to the steps of the dais, there confronted the rebels.