He let his eyes shift slightly to take in the tall towers of Thanlar, just visible over the crest of hills on the other side of the valley. Thanlar, the capitol. That was his concern. That was what he had to think about, not the village. He sighed once, started down the hill again, walking slowly, picking his way through the loose rocks with care. As he neared the village, he passed several crews of men going out into the fields. He greeted them in Interlingua, and they replied shortly, without curiosity. He knew he was a stranger to them; they did not recognize him, but they showed no curiosity. These days, curiosity was not much advantage to anyone, he thought. The farmers had probably learned long ago not to show too much interest in any stranger who suddenly appeared from nowhere. He came into the village and walked quickly to the faded wooden sign that announced, TAILOR. Entering the little shop, more a general dry-goods store than a tailor, he moved to the rear, to a small counter. No one was there, and he rang the bell on the counter. After a moment, a man appeared, hastily buttoning a tunic, his hair still tousled, sleep in his eyes. "Yes, yes? What is it? You are too early." "My apologies, old man," said the raider. "I am looking for a hunting cloak." The small man's eyes narrowed. "Ah," he said. "A hunting cloak. I have several. What did you have in mind." "Something in gray. To suit my name." "Ah. And what might you be hunting, Mr.--Gray?" "An animal of my home planet. It is called a jackal." "Ah." The old man suddenly turned from the low rack of cloaks and stared directly at his customer. His mouth compressed in a thin, bitter line. "So. You are he. The Mr. Gray who hunts the jackal. Come." He turned and led the way into his living quarters behind the counter. "I will tell the others you are here," he said. He left through a rear door, leaving the raider to wander about the tiny room, inspecting it without interest. He had seen too many like it in the past five years to be interested. Dingy little rooms in the back of a store, insect-ridden chambers in public lodgings, shack in the backwoods outside a city, too many, too many. And never a place to rest. _After this one_, he promised himself. _After this one._ Soon the little tailor came back, and there were two others with him. One was a ferret-eyed little man with a suspicious stare, the other a heavy-set farmer. The heavy-set man had a scythe in his hand, he had apparently been on his way to his fields when the tailor found him. He held the scythe tightly, and the raider could see he was very nervous. It was probably the first time he had ever come into contact with one of the raider's--profession. He didn't like it. Extending his free right hand, the farmer said, "My name is Carroll. Joseph Carroll. You are--Mr. Gray?" The raider took the proffered hand warmly, trying to gain this man's friendship. He would need all the help he could get.