'We haven't got any more bloody tortoises. That's what we haven't got.'
Teppic carefully poked his head over the top of the dune. He saw a large cleared area, surrounded by complicated ranks of markers and flags. There were one or two buildings in it, mostly consisting of cages, and several other intricate constructions he could not recognise. In the middle of it all were two men - one small, fat and florid, the other tall and willowy and with an indefinable air of authority. They were wearing sheets. Clustered around them, and not wearing very much at all, was a group of slaves. One of them was holding a bow.
Several of them were holding tortoises on sticks. They looked a bit pathetic, like tortoise lollies.
'Anyway, it's cruel,' said the tall man. 'Poor little things. They look so sad with their little legs waggling.'
'It's logically impossible for the arrow to hit them!' The fat man threw up his hands. 'It shouldn't do it! You must be giving me the wrong type of tortoise,' he added accusingly.
'We ough to try again with faster tortoises.'
'Or slower arrows?'
'Possibly, possibly.'
Teppic was aware of a faint scuffling by his chin. There was a small tortoise scurrying past him. It had several ricochet marks on its shell.
'We'll have one last try,' said the fat man. He turned to the slaves. 'You lot - go and find that tortoise.'
The little reptile gave Teppic a look of mingled pleading and hope. He stared at it, and then lifted it up carefully and tucked it behind a rock.
He slid back down the dune to Ptraci.
'There's something really weird going on over there,' he said. 'They're shooting tortoises.'
'Why?'
'Search me. They seem to think the tortoise ought to be able to run away.
'What, from an arrow?'
'Like I said. Really weird. You stay here. I'll whistle if it's safe to follow me.'
'What will you do if it isn't safe?'
'Scream.'
He climbed the dune again and, after brushing as much sand as possible off his clothing, stood up and waved his cap at the little crowd. An arrow took it out of his hands.
'Oops!' said the fat man. 'Sorry!'
He scurried across the trampled sand to where Teppic was standing and staring at his stinging fingers.
'Just had it in my hand,' he panted. 'Many apologies, didn't realise it was loaded. Whatever will you think of me?'
Teppic took a deep breath.
'Xeno's the name,' gasped the fat man, before he could speak. 'Are you hurt? We did put up warning signs, I'm sure. Did you come in over the desert? You must be thirsty. Would you like a drink? Who are you? You haven't seen a tortoise up there, have you? Damned fast things, go like greased thunderbolts, there's no stopping the little buggers.'
Teppic deflated again.
'Tortoises?' he said. 'Are we talking about those, you know, stones on legs?'
'That's right, that's right,' said Xeno. 'Take your eyes off them for a second, and vazoom!'
'Vazoom?' said Teppic. He knew about tortoises. There were tortoises in the Old Kingdom. They could be called a lot of things - vegetarians, patient, thoughtful, even extremely diligent and persistent sex-maniacs - but never, up until now, fast. Fast was a word particularly associated with tortoises because they were not it.
'Are you sure?' he said.