Free Secret of the Stars by Andre Norton

about the business of looting the dome, adding their choice of goods to the sled.
    The sun was well up to a mid-morning position before the job was finished, and the captives were brought out to stand by the impotent jumper. Stripped of their furs, the company men were tied to that vehicle, their coats dumped beyond reach. Then the vorpmen turned upon the dome, slicing the surface with the full force of their beams, cutting the tough substance into bits. As the jumper, the hole shelter would have to be written off the company books.
    “By rights, diggers,” the raid leader’s voice carried easily to Joktar, “we ought to blast you. You’d burn us quick enough if the situation were reversed. But we’ll give you a chance. Pick yourselves free, and you can slog back to the next hole, if that’s still in existence by the time you make it. And you can tell Anson Burg that there won’t be any more holes left east of the mountain soon.”
    There was an inarticulate growl in answer to that. Two of the raiders, flanked by the vorpmen, picked up the draw lines of the sled and headed toward Joktar’s hiding place.
    He had waited too long to retreat. Now his body, numbed by the cold of which he was not entirely conscious, betrayed him. Trying to slip out of sight, he lurched into brush. Instantly a vorp beam snapped in answer.
    The fact that his fur coat was too large saved him, as it had when he encountered the cat-bear. Dazedly he tumbled backward, aware of a burning agony spreading down his arm and across his chest from a point on his shoulder. He rolled in the snow, striving to ease that fire, and plunged back into empty space.
    There was shouting, the crackle of dry brush. Joktar gave a small, animal whimper as the fire in his shoulder blazed, making him sick. He struggled to get to his feet, peering around with misty eyes to find that he was entrapped in a pocket beneath a broken crust of snow.
    His left arm, his whole left side was useless. But with his right hand he pawed for the force axe. Overhead a furred arm swept back brush. Joktar, his lips tight against his teeth in a snarl of animal rage, swung up the axe to make a last stand.
    “Here he is!”
    He brought up the axe another fraction of an inch, caught his breath at the answering flash of pain across his chest. Then he threw the weapon, saw it whirl out, knock the blaster from the other’s hand.
    Joktar leaned against the wall of the pocket. His groping hand found snow, smeared it across his face, hoping the cold wet would aid him to fight off the waves of weakness which blurred his eyes and pushed him close to a black out.
    “Another digger?” The shadow of a vorp barrel fell across his face and body. “Let’s get him out for a look.”
    They got him out right enough. Joktar bit his lips against a scream of pain as they lifted him. But he fought to keep on his feet when he was out of the pocket. One of the men facing him wore the disguise of the company coat, but only his eyes were to be seen between the overhang of hood and the breathing mask.
    “No, I don’t think he’s one of this gang. You’ll find his tracks back there. He’s been trailing us all along.”
    “Why?” demanded the vorpman.
    “That’s what we’ll have to find out. We’ll take him back with us.”
    “But—” the protest was interrupted as the leader spoke directly to Joktar.
    “Did you throw that ball to warn us?”
    “Yes,” somehow Joktar got the answer out as he sagged forward to his knees, writhed at the pull of the torn and singed furs across his body as the other caught his coat to keep him from falling back into the snow pocket. That last punishment was too much, he blacked out completely.
    He lay on his back and yet his body moved, sometimes with a jerk which racked through his side. He opened his eyes to discover that he lay on the sled, lashed there with the rest of the cargo.
    “Awake, digger?” The shadow of the speaker fell across Joktar’s face and he