medicine for your hurts. At first, it will sting, as good medicines
will, but soon it will take away all pain. And here is wine for you to
drink."

A couple of detectives approached, making a great show of pouring wine
and applying ointment; under cover of the medication, they jabbed each
slave with a hypodermic needle, and then guided them to seats at the
four tables. Vall and Dalla went over and stood behind one of the
psychists, who had a small flashlight in his hand.

"Now, rest for a while," the psychist was saying. "Rest and let the
good medicine do its work. You are tired and sleepy. Look at this
magic light, which brings comfort to the troubled. Look at the light.
Look ... at ... the ... light."

They moved to the next table.

"Did you have hand in the fighting?"

"No, lord. We were peasant folk, not fighting people. We had no
weapons, nor weapon-skill. Those who fought were all killed; we held
up empty hands, and were spared to be captives of the Croutha."

"What happened to your master, the Lord Ghromdour, and to his lady?"

"One of the Croutha threw a hatchet and killed our master, and then
his lady drew a dagger and killed herself."

The psychist made a red mark on the card in front of him, and circled
the number on the back of the slave's hand with red indelible crayon.