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same deadly path. What was about to happen was a small step along the

way.

Crouched in the grass next to Blue-Thunder, Steve watched as a Mute

warrior inserted a pointed rod into a hole bored in a small block of

wood and set it spinning with his fire-bow. Moments later, the wisps

of dry grass laid around the point of the rod began to smoulder. The

fire-maker paused every now and then to blow gently until the blackened

strands gave birth to tiny points of orange fire. More tinder, more

coaxing from the fire-maker, his lips pursed as if he was blowing

kisses then finally a tiny flame that he hastened to keep alive.

While this was in progress, Blue-Thunder produced a shank of

long-bladed red grass from one of his trail bags and proceeded to bind

it to a cross-bow bolt. He then held out the bolt so that the

fire-maker could apply the nascent flame. The shank of grass began to

burn giving off a dense white smoke. Blue-Thunder laid the bolt into

the firing groove of a primed crossbow and aimed at the sky. The bolt

soared almost vertically into the air trailing a long thin plume of

smoke, seemed to hang there for a moment on reaching its apogee, then

plunged downwards in the direction of the redskins.

Steve took this to be the signal for a general attack but nobody

moved.

'What's happening?"

'There are eight red-skins camped by big water. White arrow tells them

we want to have peace-talk, not kill. We smoke grass, make trade."

'But I thought the idea was to capture them."

'Yes. But we always let some go. Red-skins run away from

sand-burrowers. If they have nowhere to run to, they not come

anymore.

Why leave bad place when other places are no better? This is why we

make trade. If we take everyone, red-skins will fight us. Everybody

die." He shrugged philosophically. 'They don't want this.

Nor do we. A red-skin with no head is bad for trade. The dead-faces

want their brains in working order."

'Let me get this straight,' said Steve. 'Both of you fight Trackers

but the renegades - uhh, red-skins - don't attack Mutes. Because if

they did they'd have two enemies instead of one. You'd wipe 'em out.

And you don't kill the red-skins because you need live bodies to trade

with the Iron Masters."

'You got it."

'But you don't take them all. so by not resisting, some of them stay

free. How many? A half, third, quarter...?"

'It depends,' replied Blue-Thunder. 'Most times we make two-way

split." He smiled. 'llnless it's a bad year."

Steve gazed in the direction in which the smoking bolt had been

fired.

'Supposing they don't know what the white smoke signal means?"

Blue-Thunder raised his heavy eyebrows. 'We might have some explaining

to do."

'I see..." Although this was all news to him, Steve imagined that

AMEXICO must know about 'white arrows'. It seemed to know about

everything else. 'So assuming they got the message, they are now busy

deciding what to do. I mean who goes and who stays, right?"

'Right,' said Blue-Thunder.

'What happens to those who stay?"

'They find other wanderers. Red-skin all alone get sik and die. Much

safer to be all together. If we find small hand after wheel-boats have

gone, we put them on trail of big clan."

A 'hand' in Mute meant six. A 'small hand' meant any number less than

six - but usually four or five.

Blue-Thunder smiled again. 'We like to make everybody happy. Good for

trade."

I bet, thought Steve. The logic could not be faulted.

The renegades were like buffalo. You kept track of where the herds

were and when it was time you went in and cut out the animals you