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→“Have an end,” snapped Kalgan. “Ten thousand stellars.”

→“Seven!”

→“Six!”

→“Five thousand for the pearl of perfection!”

→“Three thousand.” A sweating nomad thrust his way to the edge of the crowd, then swore as his bid was topped by a man from Zedroni.

→“Fifteen hundred,” called a voice from the rear, and.... “Two thousand.” This from a glinting-eyed woman wearing an elaborate headdress, a procuress from the whispered kingdom of Sith.

→“One thousand stellars,” rapped Kalgan, interrupting the auctioneer’s flow of praise. Tharg stared at him, then at the girl, then back to the impassive man of gold. He smiled.

→A woman stood on the worn stone of the block. Tall she was and with skin holding an inner light of its own, pearl-like, almost translucent, the color of old ivory and as smooth and flawless as a new-hatched dream. Black hair rippled from a high forehead, falling in thick waves over naked shoulders, half-revealing, half-concealing the ripe curves of her lissome figure and the slender grace of waist and thighs. Her lips were a crushed rose, her teeth gleaming white, her eyes twin pools of trapped midnight.

→“A rare and delectable gem, culled from the starships of space, won in fair combat and brought here for your admiration.” The old man clapped his hands and an assistant stripped the robe away from a hidden shape. “See?”

→“So?” The golden cloak rippled over the golden shoulders as the tall man shrugged. “That can be remedied.” He stared at Tharg with a peculiar expression, his cold blue eyes drifting over the great thews and barrel chest, then looked towards the block as the auctioneer resumed his business.

→“I’ve had practice and I can’t afford a blaster.”

→“You throw a steel blade well.”

→“Tharg.”

→“But it didn’t,” reminded Kalgan evenly. He had not altered his calm posture. “Your name?”

→“You must love death,” he said dryly. “One more step and the thing would have smashed your skull.”

→The beast stumbled, fell, rolled as a gush of blood spouted from its mouth, paralyzed and helpless from the cold steel severing its spine. Tharg strode over to it, turned it with a thrust of his foot, and tugged at the embedded blade. Wiping it on the thick fur, he slammed it back into its scabbard and stared curiously at the calm face of Kalgan.

→Light splintered from the steel blade as it whined from its scabbard at his side. Splintered too from the razor-edged steel as it arced through the air, driven with all the force of mighty muscles, whining from the speed of its passing. So fast did the sword travel that it was as if a thin ribbon of light stretched from the big man’s hand to the back of the lunging creature, and the sound as the steel sheared home to the hilt in the shaggy back echoed over the breathless watchers.

→He didn’t move. That to Tharg, when afterwards he thought about it, was the strangest thing of all. Kalgan just stood, arms folded, making no move towards his weapons, staring at the distorted monstrosity bearing down at him. For a moment, Tharg stared at the strange tableau, stunned by the Golden One’s immobility, then, instinctively, he swung into action.

→The beast hesitated, its sunken eyes glaring from one man to the other, and guards sweated as they struggled to align the slender barrel of a Nione projector. Before they could bring the weapon to bear, the mutated horror moved, tentacles writhing and spatulate fingers clawing as it launched itself forward in a shambling run. Directly towards the slender man in bronze.

→For a moment there was panic as men fought to get away from the shambling thing, and abruptly Tharg found himself in the front of the crowd, alone but for the slender golden shape of Kalgan.