fruit neatly.

"Sharp," she muttered.

"Sharp enough to split Oren skulls."

"And that's all you're looking for?"

"I don't know. Ever hear of the Maquis?"

She hesitated. "Two wars ago? The French underground? I remember
vaguely. I was a _little_ urchin then."

"They had a goal like mine, I guess. To harass. They couldn't win, and
they knew it. They killed and wrecked and maimed because they hated. I
want to organize a band of Oren-killers--with no purpose save to
ambush and slaughter. I sat on that island and thought and
thought--and I got disgusted with myself for hiding."

The girl munched a cheekful of bitter orange pulp and looked
thoughtful. "Wish I had some clothes," she muttered indifferently.

He shot her a hard glance then stood up to pace the floor. "Ambush,
slaughter, and _rob_," he amended, and looked at her sharply again.

"Rob?"

"Oren's taken our cities. He's reorganizing industry. With individuals
coordinated by a mass-mind, it'll be a different kind of industry, a
more efficient kind. Think of a factory in which a worker at one
position shares consciousness with a worker in another position. Does
away with control mechanisms."

"You said 'rob'."

He grinned sourly. "When they get production started, there'll be
plenty to steal. Guns; explosives--clothes."

She nodded slowly. "Trouble is: every time you kill an Orenian, they
all feel him die. They come running."

"Sometimes. Unless they're too busy. They don't care too much about
individual deaths. It's the total mental commune of Oren that matters.
Like now. They could find us if they really tried. But why should
they? They'd come as recruiting agents--with bared stingers--if they
came."

"They'll come tomorrow," she said fatalistically.

"We'll try to be ready."

* * * * *

She inspected him carefully, as if weighing his size and strength. "I
still want to team up with you."

He recalled how quickly she had knifed the Orenian to death on the
road. "Okay--if you'll follow me without argument."

"I can take orders." She folded her arms behind her head and leaned
back with a grin. Her breasts jutted haughtily beneath a torn blouse.
"_Most_ orders, that is."

"Hell, I'm not marrying you!" he snapped.

She laughed scornfully. "You will, Morgan, you will."

Morgan lashed the shotgun to a chair, aimed it at the door, and ran a
length of cord from the trigger to the shattered lock. "Don't trip
ov