t. If they want one of these hot-rod steam wagons, they are
going to have to pay for it!"

Jason lay down flat at the maximum range of the crossbow and his third
quarrel hit the boiler. It went up with a most satisfactory bang and
small pieces of metal and wood rained down all around. In the distance
he heard shouting and the barking of dogs.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

When he stood he could see a distant line of men advancing through the
tall grass and when they were closer large dogs were also visible,
tugging at their leashes. Though they must have come far in a few
hours they approached at a steady trot, experienced runners, in thin
leather garments each carrying a short, laminated bow and a full
quiver of arrows. They swooped up in a semicircle, their great hounds
slavering to be loosed, and stopped when the three strangers were
within bow range. They notched their arrows and waited with alert
patience, staying well clear of the smoking ruins of the caroj, until
Snarbi finally staggered up half supported by two other runners.

"You now belong to ... the Hertug Persson ... and are his slaves....
What happened to the _caroj_?" He screamed this last when he spotted
the smoking wreck and would have collapsed except for the sustaining
arms. Evidently the new slaves decreased in value with the loss of the
machine. He stumbled over to it and, when none of the soldiers would
help him, gathered up what he could find of Jason's artifacts and
tools. When he had bundled them up, and the foot cavalry had seen that
he suffered no injury from the contact, they reluctantly agreed to
carry them. One of the soldiers, identical in dress with the others,
seemed to be in charge, and when he signaled a return they closed in
on the three prisoners and nudged them to their feet with drawn bows.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Jason said, gnawing on a bone, "but I'm
going to finish my breakfast first. I see an endless vista of _krenoj_
stretching out before me and intend to enjoy this last meal before
entering servitude."

The lead soldiers looked confused and turned to their officer for
orders. "Who is this?" he asked Snarbi, pointing at the still seated
Jason. "Is there any reason why I should not kill him."

"You can't!" Snarbi choked, and turned a dirty shade of white. "He is
the one who built the devil-wagon and knows all of its secrets. Hertug
Persson will torture him to build another."

Jason wi