Free The Whipping Star by Frank Herbert Page B

observe his progress.  The place assaulted McKie's nostrils -- rotting flesh, dung, acrid stenches whose character he didn't care to explore, woodsmoke and burning meat.
    Clouds of black insects swarmed about the beasts yoked to the cart, seeming to ignore the slow switching of their tails.
    A red-bearded white man emerged from the larger hut as McKie approached.  The man wore a flat-brimmed hat, dusty black jacket, and dun pants.  He carried a whip of the same pattern the Palenki had used.  Seeing the whip, McKie knew he had come to the right place.
    The man waited in the doorway, a mean-eyed, menacing figure, thin lips visible through the beard.  He glanced once at McKie, nodded at several of the black men off to McKie's left, motioned toward the cart, returned his attention to McKie.
    Two tall black men moved to stand at the heads of the yoked beasts.
    McKie studied the contents of the cart.  The boardlike objects, he saw, had been carved and painted with strange designs.  They reminded him of Palenki carapaces.  He didn't like the way the two men at the heads of the yoked beasts stared at him.  There was danger here.  McKie kept his right hand in his jacket pocket, curled around the raygen tube.  He felt and saw the black residents closing in behind him.  His back felt exposed and vulnerable.
    "I am Jorj X. McKie, Saboteur Extraordinary," he said, stopping about ten paces from the bearded white man.  "And you?"
    The man spat in the dust, said something that sounded like:  "Getnabent."
    McKie swallowed.  He didn't recognize the greeting.  Strange, he thought.  He hadn't believed the ConSentiency contained a language completely unfamiliar to him.  Perhaps R&R had come up with a new planet here.
    "I am on an official mission of the Bureau," McKie said.  "Let all men know this."  There, that satisfied the legalities.
    The bearded man shrugged, said, "Kawderwelsh."
    Someone behind McKie said:  "Krawl'ikido!"
    The bearded man glanced in the direction of the voice, back to McKie.
    McKie shifted his attention to the whip.  The man trailed the end of it behind him on the ground.  Seeing McKie's attention, he flicked a wrist, caught the flexible end of the whip in two fingers which he lifted from the handle.  He continued to stare at McKie.
    There was a casual proficiency in the way the man handled the whip that sent a shudder through McKie.  "Where'd you get that whip?" he asked.
    The man looked at the object in his hand.  "Pitsch," he said.  "Brawzhenbuller."
    McKie moved closer, held out a hand for the whip.
    The bearded man shook his head from side to side, scowled.  No mistaking that answer.  "Maykely," he said.  He tapped the butt of the whip handle against the side of the cart, nodded at the piled cargo.
    Once more, McKie studied the contents of the cart.  Handmade artifacts, no doubt of it.  There could be a big profit in esoteric and decorative objects, he knew.  These could be artifacts that curried to the buyer boredom brought on by the endless, practical, serial duplications from automatic factories.  If they were manufactured in this village, though, the whole operation looked to be a slave-labor thing.  Or serfdom, which was the same thing for all practical purposes.
    Abnethe's game might have sicker overtones, but it had more understandable motives.
    "Where's Mliss Abnethe?"  he asked.
    That brought a response.  The bearded man jerked his head up, glared at McKie.  The surrounding mob emitted an unintelligible cry.
    "Abnethe?" McKie asked.
    "Seeawss Abnethe!" the bearded man said.
    The crowd around them began chanting:  "Epah Abnethe!  Epah Abnethe!  Epah Abnethe!"
    "Rooik!" the bearded man shouted.
    The chant stopped abruptly.
    "What is the name of this planet?" McKie asked.  He glanced around at the staring black faces.  "Where is this place?"
    No one answered.
    McKie locked eyes with the bearded man.  The other returned his stare in a predatory, measuring manner, nodded