There were three
of them, two men and what looked like a boy still in his teens. The boy
had red hair and a dark, ruddy complexion: he was new to the outworlds.
The two older men had the pallor of the Edge drifters, nurtured in the
artificial light of spacers and sealed survival quarters on the less
hospitable worlds.
The larger of the two men had a knife, a heavy blade of a type that was
common out here; many of the men used them as hatchets when necessary.
This one dripped with blood; the smaller man's left arm was torn open
just below the shoulder, and hanging uselessly. He stood swaying in the
dust, hurling a string of curses at the man with the knife, while the
boy stood slightly behind him, staring with both fear and hatred in his
eyes. He had a smaller knife, but he held it loosely and uncertainly at
his side.
Manning stepped between them. He had sized up the situation already, and
he paused now only long enough to bite out three short, clipped words
which told these men exactly what he thought of them.
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