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orged in the Fire-Pits of

Beth-Lem and which now hovered dangerously close to Steve's face. He

dragged his eyes away from the knife and gazed up at the owner. He had

a folded band of red cloth tied around his shaved skull. It was a

strange sight. Steve had never seen a Mute with no hair before. The

lumphead motioned him to remain silent then cut loose the gag and

offered him a drink of water. Steve raised his head and took a few

sips. His jaw had been open for so long he was unable to swallow

properly at first and almost choked.

'Easy, compadre,' muttered the Mute.

Steve eyed him curiously. 'Compadre' was not part of a normal Mute's

vocabulary.

The lump squatted down beside him. 'Okay, listen carefully. I had to

tie you up for your own good. You were blundering around like a blind

buffalo. And also because I have an investment to protect. I now

propose to untie you. But stay right where you are. No smart moves

-comprendo?"

Steve responded with a silent nod.

Placing the knife between his teeth, the Mute quickly untied Steve's

hands and feet. He was a powerfully-built guy with a great bull neck

but his movements had the suppleness of a snake. He rose and stepped

back. 'Okay, sit up."

Steve did so and found himself in a small bare wooden-walled cabin.

The box in which he had been concealed formed the base of a bunk bed,

the planked frame on which the mattress rested being the lid. The only

furnishings apart from the bunk were a wall cupboard and a narrow

shelf. He gratefully accepted another drink of water and a piece of

flat-bread. 'Are we safe here?" he whispered.

'Reasonably. It'll be some time before the guards come back."

'How long have I been here?"

'About twenty-four hours." The Mute's eyes never left Steve's face.

'I suppose you're wondering what the Sam Hill happened."

Steve grinned. 'The question did cross my mind. I've got a feeling

that, if I wait long enough, you're going to tell me."

'That depends."

'On what?"

'On what you've got to say for yourself. There aren't too many

straights around - especially with blue eyes.

What clan are you from?"

'Does it matter?"

'It does to some people."

'The M'Call, from the bloodline of the She-Kargo ' '- mightiest of the

Plainfolk. Yeah . . . they've got quite a reputation. Even so, you

were taking a big chance sneaking on board with a set of blades. What

exactly were you after, friend?"

Steve didn't respond.

The Mute grimaced sympathetically. 'I know how it is.

After you've been living close to the engines for a while you get hard

of hearing. I've already got problems with this one." He raised the

middle finger of his right hand and pressed it against his skull just

behind the lobe of his ear.

'How about you?"

Steve hesitated for a moment then did the same. The pressure activated

a tiny device carried by all MX operatives. Inserted just below the

line of the skull in an operation under local anaesthetic that took

less than fifteen minutes, it sent out a signal which caused a feedback

in any similar device with a range of five to seven yards. Mexicans

also had various passwords by which they could introduce and identify

themselves. These could never be totally secure but nobody could

duplicate the mosquito-like hum that now impinged on Steve's inner

ear.

And by applying an almost imperceptible pressure under the guise of a

quite natural gesture, the device could be turned on and off allowing

two mexicans to exchange brief signals in Morse code in the middle of a

crowd of people. Steve did this now, sending the letters, 'MX'.

'Do you hear what I hear?"

'Loud and clear." The mex grinned. 'I had you spotted when you came

in the door. Mutes don't swim and none of them would have the moxey to

break into a wheel-boat. You're lucky the guards didn't spot you. But

then they're lucky too. If you were found now, half of 'em would lose

their heads."

'Why didn't you tell me all this last night instead of breaking my head

open?"

'There wasn't time to be properly introduced. I wasn't looking to get

my guts engraved by some gung-ho artist with more balls than good

sense." The mexican extended his hand. 'Side-Winder. What's your

handle?"

'Hang-Fire. Are my blades safe?"