Free Secret of the Stars by Andre Norton Page A

turned his head, to look up at the raider who still wore the company coat.
    “I’m not from the mines,” he faltered. Somehow it was very important to make that point clear.
    “Then you’re wearing the wrong coat, digger.”
    “So are you!” mocked Joktar, the Terran’s voice stronger and more steady this time.
    “Hmmm . . .” The man broke step and then matched his stride once more to the glide of the sled.
    “You one of Skene’s crowd? Or Kortoski’s? If so, you’re way out of your territory.”
    “I’m out,” Joktar said deliberately, “of the cargo hold of a jumper where I was load-hop. I’m an emigrant.”
    “And what happened to the jumper?” A note in that demanded proof for such a preposterous statement.
    “Caught in an avalanche. The driver and guard were both dead when I got out. This coat belonged to the guard.”
    “Nice story. Since when have they been shipping youngsters out in E-ships?” He reached down to pull Joktar’s hood well away from his face, inspecting the other with cold and unbelieving eyes.
    “I’m older than I look. And when did the E-men worry about the catch in their nets? Jard-Nedlis bought my time at Siwaki all right.”
    “If you’re talking straight, fella, you’ve pulled off a neat jump of your own. What planet did you emigrate from?”
    Joktar’s eyes closed wearily. Talking required more effort than he could now find. “Terra,” he answered weakly. His eyes were tightly shut so he could not read the astonishment mirrored in those of his captor.
    Then, suddenly it was warm and he no longer rode on the sled. There was artificial light in this place, the glow of an atom bulb. Joktar lay not far from a wall of piled stones slovenly chinked with straggles of moss. And the roof over his head was a mat of brush battened down. He shifted on the pallet, enjoying the warmth, to discover that he could not move his left arm, though the worst of the pain was gone out of his shoulder.
    A hand appeared, drew a fur robe back over his bandaged chest. Joktar looked up. No hood or mask hid this man’s thin face, and the Terran recognized the badge of that deep brown skin, the brand of deep space worn by the crewmen of star ships. But what was a spaceman doing here?
    “They tell me you claim to be from Terra,” the stranger said abruptly. “What port? Melwambe? Chein-Ho? Warramura? N’Yok?”
    “N’Yok.”
    “JetTown?” Joktar knew by the faint inflection in that tone that this man must know the streets.
    He tested the spaceman’s knowledge in turn. “I was a dealer for Kern.” Had he ever faced this man across a table at the SunSpot? He didn’t think so.
    “The SunSpot.”
    He had been right. This man knew JetTown.
    “Star-and-comet, three-worlds-wild, nigs-and-naughts.”
    “Star-and-comet.”
    “Rather young to spread ’em out on that table, weren’t you?”
    Absurdly irritated, Joktar replied with a heat he instantly regretted. “I’ve dealt for five years, spacer. And if you know Kern’s you know no fumbler could keep a table going for him that long!”
    To his surprise the other laughed. “You can always touch a man on the raw when you needle his professional pride,” he commented. “Yes, I know Kern’s reputation, so I’ll concede you were a three-point-down man at the tables. As for your age,” he rubbed a thumb back and forth under his lower lip and surveyed Joktar measuringly. “There’ve always been precocious brats in every business. What’s your name, dealer?”
    “Joktar.”
    The thumb was still, the measurement became a fixed stare.
    “Just Joktar?” As the other pronounced it, the name now had an unfamiliar lilt. “Where did you get a name like that?”
    “I don’t know. Where did you get yours?”
    But the other was smiling again. “Not from the Ffallian, that’s certain. Gwyfl sanzu korg a llywun.
    That collection of sounds made no sense, yet their cadence fell into a pattern which pricked at the Terran’s mind. Was