Like all cities of more than ten million souls, Xanabar had its glistening and lofty area and its slums--and what would have been a waterfront region in a seafaring city. The conditions were the same as they'd been everywhere for a few decades of thousands of years. Only the technology changes. Man's cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic; the cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide is protected from the weather by stuff far more durable than his awn skin. But he's the same man with the same hackles; they just rise for a few more thousand reasons than the hackles of his ancestors. "Got it!" said Buregarde coming to a brief point at a closed door. "Let's go in!" * * * * * Buregarde's reply was half-snarl and half, "Look out!" Peter whirled to catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil-ray coming to point. He faded down and toward the other, almost in a fall out of the path of the pencil-ray that flicked on and began a sweep upward and in. Peter caught his balance at the same time he clutched the wrist in his right hand. Then he went on down around and over, rising on his knees to flip the other man heels high in an arc that ended with a full-length, spine-thudding body smash on the pavement. Buregarde leaped in and slashed at the hand clutching the pencil-ray, snapped his head back and forth thrice and sent the weapon flying. Then with a savage growl he set a soft mouth against the other's throat and let the man feel the pressure of his fangs. "Easy," said Peter. Buregarde backed away a few inches. "Easy nothing," he snapped. "This man is the noble dog's worst enemy. He wanted your blood." "Take it easy. I want his information." The man looked up. "Barbarian Terrestrial!" he snarled. Peter sneered. "And this is the capital city of the glorious civilization called Xanabar? Marble palaces with nobles of the blood, and stinking alleys with human rats. Where is she?" The stranger spat. "Buregarde, want some red meat?" "He'd make me upchuck. Only rodents eat their own kind." "Just a bite?" "Do I have to swallow?" "No. Just slash--" "Wait, barbarian--" "Barbarian Terrestrial, am I? You were maybe going to invite me for tea and cakes with that pencil-ray?" "I--" "Talk!" snapped Peter. "Where is she?" "Who?" "Buregarde--?" "Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand?" "All right--for the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in--and we'll have two of you!" Buregarde growled, "Three of us. And we might be hard to handle." Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for, and found the pencil-ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed the stranger across the face, turned him around, and pointed him toward the far corner. "I count three," he said. "If you're not out of sight by three--" "It'll be a pleasure, Peter," said Buregarde. * * * * *