Dave was obviously one of the
building slaves.
VI
Sunrise glared harshly over the desert. It was already hot enough to
send heat waves dancing over the sand as Hanson wakened under the bite
of a lash. The overseers were shouting and kicking the slaves awake.
Overhead the marred sky shone in crazy quilt patterns.
Hanson stood up, taking the final bite of the whip without flinching. He
glanced down at his body, noticing that it had somehow developed a
healthy deep tan during the few hours of murderous labor the day before.
He wasn't particularly surprised. Something in his mind seemed also to
have developed a "tan" that let him face the bite of chance without
flinching. He'd stopped wondering and now accepted; he meant to get away
from here at the first chance and he was somehow sure he could.
It was made easier by the boundless strength of his new body. He showed
no signs of buckling under physical work that would have killed him on
his own world.
Not all the slaves got up. Two beside him didn't move at all. Sleeping
through that brutal awakening seemed impossible. When Hanson looked
closer, he saw that they weren't asleep; they were dead.
The overseer raged back along the line and saw them. He must be one of
those conjured into existence here from the real Egypt of the past. He
might have no soul, but a lifetime of being an overseer had given him
habits that replaced the need for what had been a pretty slim soul to
begin with.
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