“Fifty Thousand Dollars.”
The words oozed from Rayfe Tassk’s mouth as a grin spread across his swarthy, mustachioed face. He pushed a translucent plastoid sheet through the holo-adverts swirling across the tabletop toward the being seated opposite.
Skeks Sudzdozyn grasped the sheet in long, blue fingers and scanned it with bulbous, unblinking red eyes.
“What’s a dollar?” he asked.
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I. Waylaid!
I
stood at bay, the still-warm carcass of my slain dromedary at my back,
surrounded by a half-dozen dwarfish Qllgir hill men; they brandished long,
wickedly-curved knives and their eyes were hidden behind lenses of darkly
stained glass. I tore the keffiyeh from my head and spat at them.
“Dogs! Come forth and have done with it!”
